


A Cryptic Tale

by raiyana



Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cryptids in Tolkien, Intertribal Elf Relations, Naga, The founding of Gondolin, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Turgon has led a select few to the Hidden Valley where they have begun the project that will eventually become his dreamed-of city of safety.Yet Ecthelion sleeps uneasy, drawn to seek out a strange song in the mountains around them that seems to echo in his mind.Meanwhile, the newcomers are watched by the curious eyes of one who is both strange and more familiar than Ecthelion had ever expected.Written for Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain & Elemmakil, Ecthelion of the Fountain & Glorfindel, Ecthelion of the Fountain & Turgon of Gondolin
Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982872
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagpieCrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieCrown/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cryptids of Gondolin](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/679291) by magpiecrown. 



> Written for - and with - the awesome magpiecrown whose initial art has spawned a whole verse between us! (I'm not even kidding, this fic is such a small part of a whole that I'm super excited to flesh out further :D )

_Tumladen, the year 61 of the First Age._

“It will be a glorious city,” Turgon said, running his fingers over the first sketches of what could one day be his home. “I’ve seen it in my dreams, Ecthelion: a safe haven for our peoples, protected from the reach of the Enemy.” He paused, looking over the plain valley, grasslands and copses of trees stretching towards the distant ring of mountains, and reaching towards the darkening sky. “Itarillë will be safe here,” he added, and Ecthelion knew that his friend was no longer addressing him, “I promise you, love, I will keep her from harm.”

“It will be,” Ecthelion agreed. “And yet my dreams are uneasy, my friend.”

“How so?” Turgon asked sharply, looking up from his plans. “We are safe here, beyond the ken of any who would harm us, any who would cause strife among Eldar.”

“I don’t…” Ecthelion sighed, moving a few steps closer to the night-dark mountains spearing the far skies; a storm hovered there. “I don’t know, I just… I think there is a presence here, not _familiar_ … but not too strange, either.” He didn’t dare hope to find any of his long-sundered kin – not anymore, the years too long and lonely – even though he still couldn’t help but explore every river or other stretch of running water that he came across in unvoiced hope.

“Someone like you?” Turgon asked behind him, an audible frown on his face.

Ecthelion shook his head. “No, I don’t think so… but I… there’s _something_ out there,” he gestured towards the mountains closest to them, and sighed at the inadequacy of his knowledge; he wished he could have learned more from his grandmother, but he had thought there would be time to learn of the Song and his place in it – time that had been stolen as their lives were plunged into Darkness.

“Take Elemmakil – actually take a few others, too – and search for it,” Turgon ordered, a clear command from a King to his vassal, not a request from a friend. “And Ecthelion… _make us safe_.”

Ecthelion flinched from the darkness that seemed to hover in the still evening air between them. He, too, remembered Elenwë’s cries of terror, remembered seeing the long spidery fingers on the green-gleaming scaled hands that had dragged her down into the dark depths.

Remembered the crunch of bone and the ripping of flesh as something hungry attacked her, the way the chill waters had closed around him as though it was an enemy, remembered fighting a snakelike body and wresting tiny Itarillë from its grasp only to feel the cold touch wrap around his own limbs.

Ecthelion still shuddered when he recalled feeling cold flesh run up his flanks, hearing a hissed voice speak almost familiar curses, spit into the air as he kicked and bit pushing his way back to the surface to find his best friend clutching his daughter, trying to stem the bleeding of her missing limb.

And Elenwë was lost, her light trapped beneath the dark icy water, devoured by a being that had felt so terribly _hungry_ it still made Ecthelion wake up in cold sweat when it shaped itself in his dreams.

And yet this feeling was not _that_ , he knew, wresting himself away from the memory and Turgon’s command both.

This feeling was wary, watchful, yet also curious, and Ecthelion walked away from his friend knowing that he, for the first time, did not intend to follow his chosen King’s command.

 _Whatever you are_ , he thought, _I will not kill needlessly_.

* * *

“I have informed our King,” Ecthelion said, taking the open seat beside Elemmakil. The log – felled some days ago and destined for timber – had been rolled into what had become his camp in a series of events that still baffled him. Most of those who claimed his leadership did not know his other nature, but Ecthelion was quite certain not many of them would so readily accept him if they knew as Elemmakil had done.

“Of your ‘feeling’?” Elemmakil teased, stirring the large stewpot.

“Yes… and King Turgon orders us to make our people safe…” Ecthelion nodded, watching a small frown bloom on his friend’s features.

“I thought you said it did not feel dangerous?” Elemmakil asked, green eyes flashing over Ecthelion’s face before moving towards the distant mountains, his body tense as though prepared to attack on a single word.

“Not dangerous – unless in the way that you, my friend, are dangerous; as any one of us might be called dangerous,” Ecthelion replied softly, conscious of any listening ears, “but I…” He paused, swallowing drily. The wound of his failure still lingered. “I saw Itarillë at the smith’s forges today; her silver foot had wrenched in a tree root, and…”

“And you think that if you had sensed something beneath the ice, much might have been different,” Elemmakil deadpanned. “We have had this talk before, my Lord. It does not do to dwell on might-have-beens – if so, I should have a lad with a sweet laugh to warm my bed in Tirion this night, rather than sit here on a log with you eating rabbit stew for the nineteenth night in a row.”

“But you would not have let Elenwë go off to Endorë without you, I know,” Ecthelion smiled, accepting a bowl of stew.

“And here we all are,” Elemmakil shrugged, “and who’s to say that, had I stayed in Tirion and found my laughing lad, things might not have been worse still?”

“At least, there’d be one less friend for me in this world,” Ecthelion agreed, “and I would count that a great shame.”

“My point is that it was not your fault that Elenwë was lost and Itarillë’s foot taken,” Elemmakil said, voice serious once more. “I offered you my allegiance for her sake… but I became your friend because you are a good ner, Ecthelion, no matter your song-blood.”

“I still wish… children should not grow without their mothers,” Ecthelion sighed, picking up a stick and stirring the red coals of the fire thoughtfully. “And if us going off to see if this echo in my ‘song-blood’, as you call it, can save the next Elenwë or Itarillë, then I shall count it time well spent!”

“Do you have a cover story?” Elemmakil asked, swallowing a too-hot mouthful with a grimace.

“…No,” Ecthelion laughed, “though I guess we do need one.”

“Unless you wish to announce your Ainurin blood, aye, we do,” Elemmakil replied drily, blowing across his spoon. “I cannot gather a team to scour the mountain-sides because ‘My Lord of the Fountains had an odd feeling’, really.”

“There’s an idea,” Ecthelion replied, carefully testing his own spoonful of stew before chomping it down happily, “I am the Lord of Fountains, am I not? And fountains need water…. And water comes from the springs that spring in the mountains.”

“Are you certain you have not dipped into Farahîr’s barrels of mead on the way here?” Elemmakil wondered. “’ _Springs that spring’_ , honestly.”

Ecthelion scowled at him.

“It’s a fair thought, forbye,” Elemmakil added thoughtfully as he chewed, “mead or no – charting these mountains, I mean. Ulmo may have promised Turgon a safe land, but I shall feel more trusting of my King’s dreams when I have tested our borders and found them strong myself.”

“Ask Erferil, perhaps?” Ecthelion suggested. “Her maps are of excellent quality.”

“Faerel, for the hunting,” Elemmakil agreed, setting his bowl between his knees as he counted on his fingers, “a small party should be more than reasonable; a mapmaker, a hunter – we cannot carry food for an overlong journey – and perhaps one of the masons…”

“If we bring back word that there are resources to be mined out there, that, too, would be useful,” Ecthelion agreed, “I shall ask for Cemdring.”

“Cemdring’ll not go without their spouse,” Elemmakil said, “but I’d not object to taking a healer along, regardless.”

“Cemdring and Eglosser, both, then,” Ecthelion said, taking another bite of the hearty stew and dreaming of roast venison.

“I shall gather them in the morning,” Elemmakil nodded decisively, “and we shall find you your Ainu-kin soon enough.”

“They’re not _my_ kin,” Ecthelion objected. Whatever lived in the mountains was connected, if barely, to the Song, yes, but their vibrancy slithering across his soul did not feel like the glittering thunder of wet hooves that heralded his father’s kin, nor the sweet tasting brilliance of light that was his mother’s. It was an earthy tone, he thought, closing his eyes and straining to listen, and faintly damp like moss. His best guess was an earth-dweller of some kind, though he did not think it was a troll – the feel of trolls was slimier, carrying the metallic scent of blood.

“Close enough,” Elemmakil opined, pouring himself another bowl of stew, and accepting a mug of ale from Farahîr with a flirtatious smile that the brewer returned in kind. Elemmakil got up, leaving Ecthelion on the log shaking his head in amusement as he watched his friend offer to carry Farahîr’s tray for him.

“We pack up at dawn,” Ecthelion called after him.

Elemmakil made a rude gesture back at him before wrapping the arm around Farahîr’s shoulders.

Ecthelion ate the last of his stew, chuckling quietly to himself.

 _At least Elemmakil is coming with me_ , he thought, _and not a retainer of Turgon’s willing to kill a strange being on sight._

Turning his face towards the mountains, he tried again to feel that small echo in the Song.

_I do wonder what you are._

* * *

_Ssssstrangerssss in the mountainssss,_ a snake hissed in passing, curling around Tathren’s wrist for a small squeeze before she moved on, searching for a better place to lay her eggs. _Coming up._

“Orcs?” he wondered aloud, scratching his scalp for a moment before letting his fingers run along the soft-dry scales of one of his own snakes, a pleasured hiss emanating from the small fanged mouth at the end of the strand of ‘hair’. “No, the dread yrch have learned to fear these mountains; too many of their kin left to line the crags and valleys, guarding the passes against those who wish to find their way here.”

He was quite proud of that, if he was honest, picturing the proud look on his grandmother’s – both of them, really – face if she had seen how he had managed to turn his curse into protection.

As always, the memory of arms stretched towards him turned to stone made his stomach roll.

The snakes curling down his back hissed as one, wrapping around him in a semblance of a hug that was more comforting than Tathren would like to admit, even to himself.

“Why should any be coming from the valley?” he asked, stroking one of the bigger ones hanging over his shoulder for a moment, before he returned his attention to the mix of flour and water that would become bread for his supper. “There’s no way in, except by an Eagle’s wings, and _they_ wouldn’t…” Kneading the dough in time with a small tune he remembered from the earliest days of his childhood, Tathren mulled over the mystery.

The snakes had no response for him, but he had expected none; they knew no more than he did , after all.

“Tomorrow I will climb to the farther side and look,” he decided, leaving the small lump of dough to rise in its woven basket covered by a dampened piece of cloth.

Squinting against the early morning sunlight, he sighed and got to his feet.

From afar, the bleating sound of a goat was heard.

Tathren washed his hands in the icy stream that passed his small cavern, smiling at the sound. She was a good milker. There was usually plenty for both him and her kids to share, and a bit leftover for making cheese, too.

He liked the life he had crafted in the mountains, far away from anyone who might wish to harm him – and from anyone he might do harm unintended, too.

Once again, a smile frozen into stone flashed across his mind, but Tathren shook his head to clear it, rising from the streambank with a small sigh. He controlled his gaze, these days, and yet he had little desire to return to those he had called his family, too fearful that the skill he had gained in solitude would not hold among the bustle of every day life with the clan; an old fear and yet a thought he could not quite shake.

If he ever saw another face frozen in startlement because of him...

 _I pray you are well, mother-mine,_ he thought, catching a glimpse of one of the fiery red poppies he had managed to grow near his home; they always reminded him of his beloved mother. _I am sorry._

A different face, younger than the one that had become stone, and yet not, blue eyes in turn storm-dark and calm, loving and ferocious in anger, appeared before him.

In his memory, Ruinelloth’s smile was sorrowful and caring both, her arms warm around him the last time they parted, even though he had not dared to look at the time.

_I pray you are well, mother. Do not forgive me._

But he knew that she had.

He knew that the stone-turned smile carried no resentment either, only a small hint of surprise and regret, but neither blame nor hate.

He knew that she would never hate him, the grandmother who had filled his childhood with stories and lessons, shared the wisdom of her years with any who came to seek it.

He knew it.

He _did_.

And still the fear remained, heavy and unyielding in his breast, and so Tathren stayed in his mountain dwelling far from any place the People wandered.

* * *

“We’re not alone,” Faerel whispered, merely a day’s travel across the rocky slopes. Stringing her bow swiftly, she had nocked an arrow before Ecthelion had even managed to draw his sword; Sindar archers – particularly the families tasked with guarding Doriath – were the most accurate and swift shooters he had ever seen.

“What did you see?” Elemmakil asked, but Faerel was already gone, the thick braid of her silver hair bouncing against one shoulder as she leapt over a large boulder, loosing her arrow almost before she had cleared the obstacle herself.

Ecthelion had seen her shoot like that before, loosing a second arrow before her feet even hit the ground, but as they ran to where she had disappeared, they did not hear the expected groan of pain from her target, nor a roar of rage from its companions.

There was only silence.

They split around the rock, weapons raised in a swift charge, but the warcry Ecthelion had been about to call did not fall from his lips.

Instead, his feet stopped in horrified wonder as he stared at the sight before them.

“You had best come see this, Captain,” Faerel said, turning around with an unsettled expression on her face, two splintered arrow shafts in her fist.

Elemmakil and Ecthelion both lowered their swords, stepping closer.

“Who… who would do such a thing?” Ecthelion wondered. “It is… so incredibly…” _lifelike._

“Lady Nerdanel could have carved such a thing,” Elemmakil offered, “but none other than a master ; I think even a Dwarf would struggle to make such a craft.”

“Because it is no _craft_ ,” Cemdring spat, keeping well clear of the large orc statue.

“That is the work of a Stone-Eye,” Faerel added, making a complicated hand gesture that Ecthelion had seen other Sindar do when talk fell upon the vile work of the Shadow’s servants. “It was never _carved_.”

“It is sorcery of the most evil kind. I only wonder that it was once an orc, not an elf. There were stories of some turned to such stone as this, left for unwary kindred to stumble upon.” Cemdring, too, made the gesture, though they hailed from Tirion; wedded to a Sindar herbalist, however, they had adopted some of the mannerisms of their spouse.

“You mean this was…” Ecthelion began, his voice petering out as he circled the stone orc. He had never thought he might witness fear in the face of an orc, but the silent scream trapped forever in this piece of stone could be little else.

“Eglosser could tell you more,” Faerel said, eyeing the stone orc with distaste. “I had not seen such a thing myself, before – and I wish now that I had not seen such an unnatural sight. But my family guarded the borders of Doriath, and Eglosser’s travelled the wider lands under Denethor.”

“It is near time to camp, regardless,” Elemmakil offered calmly, and only long years of familiarity let Ecthelion see how deeply rattled he really was.

Could anyone truly deserve such a fate? Even an orc?

Ecthelion did not know the answer, reaching out to touch the stone-flesh of the orc before them and feeling almost surprised when his fingers met cold unyielding stone; it looked like it should still be soft, somehow.

The stone hummed with power beneath his fingers, making the echo of a long-gone scream ring in his ears.Ecthelion drew back, fascination overwhelmed by revulsion.

“Yes… let us set camp away from here, though,” he agreed. “I have no desire to eat in the presence of this dark spellcraft.”

“The Stone-Eyes are great monsters,” Eglosser said, stirring up the fire. No one had felt much like talking as they ate, and Cemdring took his hand in a gentle squeeze as he continued, “half snake and half not, a terrifying mix of Eldar and beast, standing taller than even King Thingol.”

Ecthelion suddenly remembered that Eglosser’s mother had been a Keeper of Lore – she had fortunately passed some of her skills to her son. 

“So they are servants of evil?” Cemdring asked quietly. 

“Frightening in visage, at least,” Eglosser replied with a shrug. “And yet not all of their kin share the terrible gaze that turns hearts to stone and bodies to rock,” he added thoughtfully, gazing back in the direction of the stone orc.

“I’d think you shouldn’t need a lot to make a formidable line of defence,” Elemmakil interjected drily. “Did Morgoth corrupt them?”

“This is not known,” Eglosser replied apologetically, “it has been long years since a naga was last seen by any of the people, but that means little; they might have fled further south or across the mountains.”

“It made an orc into stone,” Faerel said. “I shouldn’t think it is on the side of the yrch, at least.” _Which does not mean it will not attack **us** , _she didn’t have to continue.

“It is a shame,” Eglosser said quietly. “The first People Born Under Stars say they learned much of healing from the Naga, for they know much of plants and things that grow, and more still of spellwork.” 

Much herblore from the Eldest Days survived in Menegroth, Ecthelion knew, but more had been lost with Denethor’s kin; their way had never been to set knowledge in great tomes as he had seen in Tirion, but rather passing it from one generation to the next in songs and tales – much like his own kin.

“Naga…” Ecthelion said, tasting the word that felt oddly familiar to the tongue. “Half elven, half snake?” He couldn’t truly picture such a blend of bodies, wondering if the elven shape had the snake’s scale, or whether it had a snake’s body with elven limbs.

“In the drawings I have seen, their lower half resembles a great snake, much bigger than any I found in the forest,” Eglosser shrugged. “The upper half is akin to an elf’s, and more beautiful than words may tell, the songs say.”

“ _Beautiful_?” Elemmakil spluttered, glancing swiftly at Ecthelion and back to Eglosser.

Ecthelion tried not to laugh; Elemmakil might have accepted that he could change his shape into one resembling a horse more than anything, but he would never call the horned head or the fanged visage beautiful to Elven eyes.

“Desirable,” Eglosser nodded. “My mother told tales of the Unbegotten mating with them – not for offspring, for pleasure.”

“But it’s a snake!” Elemmakil continued hotly.

“And elf,” Ecthelion interjected calmly. “If those ancient ones found them pleasing or desirable,” he teased, “perhaps you might too, seeing one in the flesh.”

“I would not find it desirable to have a giant snake curled about my legs,” Elemmakil said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the fire.

Ecthelion felt a rush of cold dread running down his spine, remembering that exact feeling only too well.

_A Naga… Was that what took Elenwë?_

Looking at Elemmakil, fist curled so tightly around his knife that Ecthelion thought the handle might crack, he knew that he was not the only one to have that thought; he could still feel the touch of the scaly appendages that had tried to keep him in the dark waters, hear the almost-elven scream as he cut off part of the thing that held them, pushing Itarillë away from its grasp.

“Do they live in water?” Elemmakil asked, voice hoarse.

Faerel shot him an indecipherable glance, but Eglosser shook his head.

“Caves or dens in the ground, mostly, though stories tell that they enjoy swimming, too.”

“I wonder if this is the last one…” Ecthelion said, pushing away the memory of scaly limbs trying to choke him. Egalmoth’s kindred were all gone, lost to death or Morgoth’s dark service, singing nightmares into being at his bidding. If the Naga had once been mentors of the Children, had they, too, fallen for the promises of the Dark Vala?

“Some were seduced by the Shadow, I’ve no doubt,” Eglosser sighed, “but the legends are old, now, coming from the First and shared down through generations. Many years have passed since last I heard of one who saw the work of a Stone-Eye in their path.”

“And yet this _was_ that,” Faerel replied, wrapping her arms around herself. “I have no doubt.”

“But it _was_ an orc,” Ecthelion heard himself say. “Surely a servant of Morgoth would not attack his other servants unbidden?” In the dusk, they had spotted what appeared to be another of the unsettling statues, though even Faerel had not desired to look closer.

“Who says it was unbidden?” Elemmakil asked darkly. “As I could never divine the workings of the mind of Manwë, I shall not try to understand that of his brother.”

“A fair point,” Ecthelion conceded, though it still felt strange to him. Could the presence he had felt be this Stone-Eye?

Looking around the small group he had brought to this place in search of answers, he felt guilt weighing on his heart. _Have I led you all to certain doom?_

And yet, when he first came into this valley to help Turgon build his hidden city, he had not felt in danger.

_Has Ulmo steered our King false in promising a safe haven in these lands?_

Never before had he had cause to doubt the Lord of Waters, and Ecthelion did not like the feeling, wishing they were not so far from the shores of the sea; the waves always soothed him, and he felt a great need for calm tonight – the kind of thing that could not be found in the company of the Eruhini, but only sought in the cool salt spray and pounding of the ocean where he had spent so many bright and happy moments playing as a child.

“My mother told me a tale of our last chief’s mother,” Eglosser said quietly, staring into the flames. “Idhrenes, Wisest of Chiefs to the Elanori, she called her, whose life was taken by the Stone-Eyes.”

Ecthelion thought he might know what had happened to that lady already, but Cemdring had moved a little closer to their spouse, and both Faerel and Elemmakil seemed to be listening intently, so he did not object when Eglosser began telling the tale of Idhrenes and the Stone-Eye.

“The son of our chief, Glorfindel whose hair is like sunlight, was the first to find his grandmother, and the sight of her filled his heart with rage,” Eglosser said, making a dramatic pause. “When Chief Ruinelloth found them, he vowed to avenge Idhrenes, setting off into the wilds alone, armed with his bow and staff, and disappearing into legend…” he paused, looking around the sombre group for a moment, and then smiled. “But no new works of the Stone-Eyed have been found since that day, and in the stories of the People, it is said that Glorfindel yet lives, forever guarding us from the shadows that turn hearts to stone.”

Ecthelion rather doubted that; how could one warrior stand alone against such monstrous power and live? And yet that was exactly what his friends had set out to do that day in Tirion, was it not? Taking the fight to the doorstep of an enemy against whom they were as small as ants.

And still the Noldor had reached some of their goals, despite the heavy losses, proving in turn that even a Vala was not truly invincible in his power or reach, but only as strong as those who served him in his dark purposes.

Ecthelion had to smile at himself.

He might not believe in this mythical golden hero, but Eglosser seemed more peaceful for the telling of the story, less haunted by the afternoon’s discovery, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly indebted to the no doubt late Glorfindel for that, if nothing else.

Peace of mind could be so dear, he had learned over the years, as to be invaluable to those who sought it.

How often had he not dreamed that he would find his Da somewhere in an ocean wave, after all, seen his family play in a refraction of light upon water and wished with all his might that the images were true, that he could return to the sheltering arms of beloved kin and simply breathe in the peace of their embrace?

But there would be no peace for him, not truly, and though vengeance for the fallen might bring some relief, Ecthelion did not think he should ever know true peace again; he envied Eglosser’s serene smile, leaning back in the strong arms of Cemdring, knowing that the herbalist’s tale had brought them reassurance, if only a little, that danger was not so near as it had seemed that afternoon, gleaming sunlight on stone fangs.

Reassurance that there were arms to hold tight through the dark times and gentle touches to tend to wounds, a connection to kindred stretching back through ages on both sides, names from the past invoked in protection and healing.

Ecthelion envied them, at times, the Children of Eru, for how easily they found these things with each other when he always had felt – even among the kindred to which he had been born – as though standing outside the gentle glow of an evening fire looking at others enjoying the heat , yet not feeling it himself.

His family had been the light and warmth of that fire, but they had been snuffed out with the Trees, lost to a maelstrom of fury and grief that still sometimes overwhelmed him.

_Why did you leave me, too, Father?_

But he knew why; Undulávor‘s temper had always raged just underneath his skin, and though he had felt the same grief for his mother and sister when they had perished with the light, Ecthelion had inherited a calmer temper from his mother’s blood than the tempest that was his wrathful father.

Knowing that, however, did nothing to diminish the feeling of having been abandoned by the one person that was left of his own kin. The dark void in his heart would never be completely filled by the company of friends or the smiles of young Itarillë when she named him uncle, her golden hair a bittersweet reminder of a different young girl, laughing purple eyes and Laurelin hair, playing in the swift rapids of home.

_I am sorry, sister-mine, that I never took you to meet my Elven friends. Do not forgive me._

He did not know what happened to people of their kind after death, though he did not think even Mandos could bear to keep a spirit as sweet as Kandóra’s in his Halls for long.

 _If only I had brought you to Tirion then…_

Shaking himself free of might-have-beens, Ecthelion realised that he was alone by the fire that had been banked for the night, and surrounded by the sleeping lumps of their party. Elemmakil was wrapped in his blue cloak, obviously taking it upon himself to guard them that night.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Ecthelion whispered, getting up to take a seat beside Elemmakil, “I fear I have led you to great peril.”

“No greater than I have faced before,” Elemmakil replied drily, “and I am not freezing now, so you’ll have to try somewhat harder to beat Turgon or Fingolfin in my estimation of ‘leading to danger’.”

Ecthelion was surprised to realise that the soft low laugh was coming from his own throat.

Elemmakil’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight when he grinned.

“I think I shall not try to win this feat of strength,” Ecthelion teased, but then he fell serious once more. “But I am glad you are with me.”

“I am glad to be with you, also,” Elemmakil replied, gazing outwards across the rocky landscape, “my Lord.”

Ecthelion scowled, catching the slight upturn of Elemmakil’s lips that gave away his stifled laughter; his Captain knew how much he disliked being referred to by the title that Turgon had bestowed upon him, and took great pleasure in ruining otherwise serious conversations with its use.

“I think I shall leave you to watch, then,” Ecthelion huffed in mock-anger.

Elemmakil knew him too well to fall for it, and Ecthelion did not get up.

Neither spoke again until dawn had begun to lighten the world around them.

* * *

The little daggermouth had been right, Tathren realised, looking down into the valley from behind a couple of tall pine trees that whispered about squirrels and rain, watching as people scurried about like an anthill of frenzied activity. They had made camp by the banks of the lake, felling trees in the parts of the oblong valley closest to him; already many logs lay in the sunlight, freed from their branches as they waited to be used.

“They’re _building_ ,” he muttered to himself. Noldor, he thought, though he wouldn’t dare get close enough to say for certain – better for everyone that he remained in hiding. They would eventually discover his statues, of course, but they were too good a deterrent to the forces of the Enemy to crumble, and Tathren wasn’t too worried. Why would Noldori know of the mythical beings the Sindar had named Stone-Eyes, after all? Why would they care overmuch for statues of yrchs?

He hunted in the scattered woods there from time to time, but it should be simple enough to avoid being detected by Noldor when even the Shadow’s best trackers could not find his trails, so he had no fear of going hungry. They had no reason to hunt for him, and he had no reason to seek them out, either, nor did he want to uproot the life he had carved out in these mountains; Darthoriel would give birth soon, and he’d never leave her behind.

“No, I shall not be chased away from the land I have made my own,” he said, feeling better for saying it out loud, even if only to his own snakes. One hissed gently, wrapping itself around his throat with a small squeeze.

Tathren smiled, accepting the small comfort, and turned his back on the valley. 

“Welcome to the hidden valley, long-lost kindred,” he said to the still evening air, walking off towards his cliffside home with a swift stride.

At least they were Elves, not Orcs – much the lesser threat to his peaceful solitude.

* * *

“I can hear the rushing song of water,” Ecthelion said dreamily, singing a silly little song to himself as he walked. “ _Falling, falling swiftly, hurtling over rock and stone and dancing into mists and rainbows, falling, falling swiftly, singing life into the world and pounding rocks and stone. Falling, falling swiftly, playing in the reeds of swaying winds, falling, falling swiftly, waters flow with love and life, telling a story of the world._ ” Humming to himself, he hopped from boulder to boulder, breathing in the enticing scent of water stirred by air, rushing into his lungs like breathing in the rivers of his first home.

“You are a most peculiar Lord,” Eglosser told him, though the herbalist seemed more amused than anything. “Not like most Noldor I have met.”

“I’m not a Noldo,” Ecthelion shrugged, “not fully, at any rate.” He didn’t feel the need to explain to the gentle herbalist that he wasn’t even truly an _elf_ , but Eglosser just nodded and didn’t even ask the question that most would have.

“Water… I suppose there must be springs in the mountains, bringing life to the valley,” Eglosser agreed sagely. “Oh, athelas!” he exclaimed, Ecthelion entirely forgotten in favour of bounding towards a bit of greenery that he recognised from childhood meals. It had a different name, then, but his mouth suddenly filled with its sharp-green taste, mingling with his favourite blackberries in a burst of yearning for things lost so long ago.

“I like the taste of that,” Ecthelion said, forcing down the memory of Lúsina’s smile as he looked at the small plant.

“They make good medicine,” Eglosser agreed. “It helps cleanse the spirit of the Shadow’s taint. My people used to cultivate groves within the forests that held this and other herbs for such purposes…” Shaking his head, Eglosser quickly masked his sadness, pulling the small trowel from his belt and began to dig up one of the small plants. “I wish I had brought more clay bowls,” he muttered to himself, carefully transferring the plant and its damp soil to a smallish burlap sack.

“I could probably find clay somewhere,” Cemdring said, leaning over his shoulder. “If Ecthelion says there is a river or stream, then perhaps there is river clay, too – I can’t fire it properly, of course, but still…”

“And this is why I love you,” Eglosser replied, turning his head to press his lips against their cheek. Cemdring blushed brightly, pushing at his shoulder.

Ecthelion drew away, a wistful smile on his face; he knew such love was not written in his stars, and yet… Enviously, he tried not to look – but failed – as Cemdring drew their spouse into a proper kiss with a happy laugh.

 _Sometimes I wish I was an elf_ , he thought, imagining himself leaning into the embrace of a lover who was like him in all ways. _And yet… I would not give up myself for any reason. Even love._

He liked warming his bedroll with one or two for a time, but aside from Turgon, Elemmakil, and Egalmoth, there were none among their people who knew he was no elf – and Ecthelion had never found someone he could trust enough to fall in love wholly.

He was not an elf, and he would never be truly one of them, he knew, the pain of it a dulled sting after so many years. He had not truly been one of the herd despite being born of them, and he was not now one of Turgon’s people, despite his rank and acceptance among them; if he showed himself as he was in his other form – or any of the in between stages – he had no doubt that they would think him a spy of Morgoth’s. He wouldn’t even blame them, he mused, flicking his tongue over teeth that always felt too small and too blunt, nowhere near as sharp as his true fangs. The horn they might accept, and the fur-pattern of his skin, too – although he could not deny that his kelpie form would terrify even the bravest warrior.

“You’re brooding,” Elemmakil informed him, dropping an odd-looking but pleasingly plump bird at his feet. “Faerel reckons these are edible. I figured we could bring some of the tailfeathers to Egalmoth, he likes those things.”

“And you like his mouth, I know,” Ecthelion replied, shaking off his melancholy to grin at his friend. The feathers were quite pretty, fanning out from the rump in a spiky arrangement, light brown striped across in black. Egalmoth would appreciate them.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of wooing,” Elemmakil shrugged, “particularly when either party is clear that there will be no more than the fun of a shared bedroll between them.”

“Agreed,” Ecthelion nodded, crouching to run a fingertip across the longest tail feather. The bird’s head was capped in iridescent green, though a red ring surrounded the eye; the green reminded him of parts of Egalmoth’s own feathers, though he wasn’t certain the alkonost had told his sometimes lover that _he_ wasn’t fully elf, either. It was not Ecthelion’s place to tell Elemmakil – he might have, if either of them had been serious about building a life together, but he knew both his friends well enough to know that it was not the case; Elemmakil had always had the habit of finding lovemates and flitting from one male to the next, and Egalmoth was similar, seeking uncomplicated physical pleasures with his partners of any sex.

“I’m sorry Ilcar followed Prince Findaráto,” Elemmakil offered, putting his hand on Ecthelion’s shoulder in a squeeze of gentle comfort.

“That was his desire,” Ecthelion shrugged. “The only sad thing in our parting is that I miss his body more than I miss _him_ ,” he added, shaking his head ruefully at the memory of his last bedmate.

“Well, he _does_ have an excellent backside,” Elemmakil laughed, “I can see why you’d miss grabbing it.”

“You’re so crude,” Ecthelion huffed, copying Turgon at his stuffiest and making them both crack up with laughter.

“Yep,” Elemmakil agreed, sticking out his tongue at Ecthelion, “now help me pluck these before Faerel accuses us of being lazy.”

“Very well,” Ecthelion sighed, grabbing one of the dead birds.

Cemdring had already built them a cookfire, he noted with approval, ringed with small flat rocks so they could make nut-flour waybread.

The thought made Ecthelion smile through the task; Eglosser had found a beehive earlier, managing to steal a bit of honey, so they would have sweetened flatbreads to go with the roasted… “what do you call these? In Sindarin, I mean,” he asked.

“Faerel said pheasant,” Elemmakil shrugged. “I prefer cecet, though.”

“They don’t look exactly like ceceti,” Ecthelion opined, “though I can see your point.”

“So long as they taste good, I’ll not quibble about the name,” Elemmakil chuckled, setting aside the long tail feathers carefully.

“Oooh, pheasants!” Eglosser chimed in happily from behind them, dropping an armload of broken branches beside Ecthelion and began searching through his pouch of dried herb sachets. “I have a bit of urnalas[1] in my pack. I promise you, Captain, our meal will be most flavourful!”

It was.

[1] Thyme, lit. Burn-herb


	2. Chapter 2

“Kandóra!” he called, looking up towards the top of the small waterfall that flowed down until it merged with the river of their birth. “Jump in – the water is lovely!” It swirled, cool and welcoming, around his strong limbs, the current of the waterfall’s pool swaying him gently along.

“But it’s tall, Necel!” she called back, chewing apprehensively on her bottom lip. “’m scared…”

“Don’t be,” he promised, climbing out of the pool – the water barely reached his ribs – with a shake of his head, pushing his wet mane out of his face. “We can do it together,” Necel suggested, giving her an encouraging smile.

Kandóra nodded hesitantly, tripping a little in place.

The waterfall was only a little higher than she was, and Necel climbed the rocks beside it easily, snatching his little sister up in his arms and tickling her sides until she laughed, purple eyes bright with happiness.

Carrying her, he stepped up to the edge of the small fall, feeling Kandi cling to him.

“All is well, littles” he promised, “I’ll always protect you. The water is right down there – can you hear how it wants to play with you?”

Kandi nodded, burrowing into his chest though she turned her face towards the water, studying the drop between them and the surface of the pool from the safety of her brother’s hold.

“Wanna swim?” Necel asked, changing his grip slightly so he could hold her, feeling small arms wrap around his neck, Kandi’s legs gripping his sides.

Kandi nodded. “Togesher,” she mumbled into his dark-furred shoulder.

Necel smiled, taking a step back before running towards the edge, jumping off and landing them perfectly in the middle of the pool.

The water welcomed them joyfully, washing once over Kandi’s head before Necel got his feet planted on the bottom.

“It’s fun!” he told her, lifting her up above the water, feeling her legs kick against the surface, splashing water on his chest.

She laughed, knocking the round tip of her tiny horn against his bigger one. “Again, Necel, again!” she cried, all fear forgotten.

_I’ll keep you safe and fearless, littles._

He smiled, letting her float on her back as he towed her towards the small shore.

_Always_.

“But you didn’t, Ecthelion,” Kandóra’s light voice replied, suddenly standing before him, matured into a long-limbed beauty though her eyes still blazed the same amethyst of his own. “You did not protect me, brother…” Sorrow coloured her, darkening the bright gold of her skin as she reached for him. “Where are you, Necel…?” she asked, cupping his cheek in a soft hand that grew claws, each fingertip cutting into his flesh.

Ecthelion sat up, gasping for breath that seemed impossible to find, four spots on his left cheek throbbing with pain in time to the galloping beat of his heart.

“Kandi…!” he cried out, reaching for the swiftly fading vision before him, Kandi’s last smile hovering in the air for a moment beyond the rest of her before fading into nothing. He saw naught else but the darkness of night.

Throwing off the blankets that seemed little better than the strangling scaled limbs of the under-ice creature, Ecthelion got to his feet, lungs heaving like bellows. Restlessly he paced for a moment, catching sight of Elemmakil on watch with a start, the world realigning in his mind like breaking through the surface of a swift river.

Pushing his loose hair away from his face, Ecthelion groaned. He was utterly soaked, as though he truly _had_ swum in that pond where he’d played with his sister so long ago, halcyon days of a childhood lost beyond the Sea.

The clammy feel of his clothes overwhelmed him, making him tear them from his body, caring little for things like seams or lacings, throwing the damp fabric beside his bedroll.

Nude, he stalked off, exchanging a nod with Elemmakil who knew better than to hail him, his form shifting before he was truly far enough from camp to avoid discovery – but Ecthelion neither knew nor cared, following an instinct older than himself towards the water.

Blessedly cool, it called to him; a sweet song gurgling in his ears as he came to a stop at the bank of the swift mountain river; rushing over the edge of a fall, dark and inviting as it sang to him.

Ecthelion waded in, letting the current wash the sweat from his skin and the thoughts from his mind, letting the caressing fingers of water unfamiliar yet welcoming explore him, greet him as kin. Floating, he breathed slowly, drawing a sense of peace into his lungs.

_Do not forgive me, little sister,_ he thought, looking up at the stars. The Moon shone above him, and Ecthelion remembered the first time he’d seen it rise into the sky, feeling now the same sense of hope at the soft glow he had then.

Arien steered the sun, he knew, recognising her blazing spirit, and yet he could not but wonder if, perhaps, the Sun had been crafted from the souls of those slain with the Trees, carrying the brightness that had been his sister and the soft light of his mother, wrapped in the warmth of his grandmother’s smile… Perhaps they were not gone, but watched over him in the daytime?

A sweet fantasy, surely, he thought, shaking his head at himself as he dove towards the rocky bottom of the river, ripping up a bit of green to chew on as he continued to float, the current carrying him towards the falls. A sweet fantasy, but not enough to make him believe in its premise; Elves went to Mandos, mortals journeyed beyond the circles, he knew, but the Ainukin… he was never told what happened to them when they died – and telling himself such comforting lies was just an attempt to soothe his wounded soul.

It did not work beyond a moment or two, as ever, and when Ecthelion let himself be carried off the edge of the fall, tumbling with the water into the rock-ringed pool below, he almost wished he had been born an elf. Perhaps then he would have had hope of seeing his family once more, even if only in spirit.

_You’re not going to die by your own hand_.

He could almost imagine his sister’s scoff if she’d heard him be so maudlin, and Ecthelion smiled, turning his ungainly tumble into a smooth dive, piercing the welcoming darkness like a hot knife through butter.

The water pressed against his shoulders, keeping him down for a moment after he met the bottom, smooth stones pounded for thousands of years until they had been polished into a roundness that always pleased his hooves, slipping across the unblemished surfaces for a moment before setting off, breaking free of the water’s force with ease.

Swimming in small circles, he relaxed at last; water was safety and _home_ , in ways no other element could be, cool as it caressed each limb and buoyant, lifting him both physically and in spirit. Even if there were no small hands to grip now, no purple eyes to make laugh, no sweet smiles or golden fur turned more golden by Laurelin’s light, still there was joy to be found in playing among the currents.

Ecthelion whinnied a laugh at himself, feeling his worries fade away as he splashed and jumped, drinking his fill of the sweet refreshment.

* * *

It was strange to think that there might be a whole clan of elves so near; it had been long years since Tathren had kept his home among the Elanori, so much time since he had fled who he once was to learn whom he had become.

“And what have I become?” he muttered to himself, the leather bundle containing his soap and scale oil bumping against his back as he hoisted it a little higher. “Maudlin, that’s what.” A snake hissed softly, but Tathren paid it no mind. “Grandmother would tell me to go and meet them, to seek their friendship,” he added, holding up one hand, weighing the choice. “But then Scalemother Athess would recommend I hide and move far from their camps, leaving no trace of my presence.” 

The hand dropped, but the snake did not react, remaining curled lazily over one of his shoulders tasting the night air. “And mother…” He paused, wondering exactly what Ruinelloth might have advised; for a heart-piercing moment, he missed her with a force that took his breath away, missed her fiery hair and calm reassurances, the way she had always seemed to know the way when he would stumble. “Mother would tell me to be brave but wise,” he sighed, blinking away the memory of the last time he’d seen her, tears running down cheeks paled with grief, and yet stronger than the roots of the mother oak as she told him to go. “She would tell me…”

_Do as your lonely heart bids you, son of mine_ , the wind whispered across the rocks. _Find your own path._

Tathren’s expression wavered, solidifying into sad longing.

“I miss you most, mother of mine,” he whispered into the night air, wishing for the wind to carry his words south, though he knew they could never travel far enough to reach her.

Shouldering the small bag once more, he shook his head – ignoring the slightly annoyed hisses in response – and set off with renewed vigour across the rocks.

It had been too long since his last swim, too long since he had last taken the time to clean himself like he was still part of the clan’s rest time; he was alone now, and had no fellows to help tend to his hair and skin, and the rest time would not be spent reaffirming bonds of friendship with anyone but himself – but that did not mean he would not benefit from a rest and a leisurely grooming session.

Even if he still had not decided whether he would be brave enough to reveal himself to the strange elves in the valley.

* * *

_What is …. **that**?_

Hiding behind a large rocky outcropping topped by a couple of scraggly pines, Tathren stared at the pool where he usually went to swim, only a small hike from the cave he had turned into a home.

It was a horse – or it must be – though it bore little resemblance to the horses he had once groomed, the placid creatures who so happily pulled the sleds along that carried the heaviest supplies of the Elanori on the move.

_You’re a beautiful one, sweet thing_ , Tathren thought, pleased to remain hidden as he watched the horse swim and play; slender long limbs so different from what he had known that calling it a horse seemed almost wrong, yet that was the only name he could give the magnificent creature. It was a sleek beast, coloured in deepest black and pearly white, the pale fur gleaming in the moonlight even as the dark patches seemed to be spun from the deepest midwinter nights.

The horse whinnied something that sounded almost like joyful laughter, making Tathren smile in response as he watched it splash the cool water of the waterfall pond over itself, shaking its black mane away from its face.

_What are you, friend? Whence did you come?_ Tathren wondered, eyes caught by the silvery gleam of the silvery sharp-looking spike protruding from the horse’s forehead; a pale forelock surrounded its base, streaming into the black mane like a beam of starlight. It had clearly grown there – or perhaps been implanted by sorcery?

The water horse dove beneath the surface, reappearing in a spray of water that glittered with moonlight, moving towards the shallower bank with a soft neigh that felt like regret.

Tathren almost did not believe his own eyes.

As he watched, the horse shrank, fluidly changing its form until he was looking at the backside of a tall elf’s shape, skin still bearing the rapidly fading pattern of the horse’s body though it had turned a uniform pale when he blinked once more.

_Who… **what** are you?_

_Are you… like me?_

Scalemother Athess had told him there were others carrying the blood of Eru’s thoughts, but Tathren had never met another; seeking out his mother’s kin had never seemed particularly wise after he learned that it was their hatred that had made him an orphan. Although Athess herself had accepted him as kin, she was understandably concerned that those of her sons who had murdered his father would attempt to kill him too, so meeting family on that side had never been written in his stars, either.

And he still had not worked up the courage to attempt a return to his family in the Elanori clan, even though he had learned to control his stone gaze since that terrible day he had watched his grandmother’s kind smile freeze into the immobility of a perfect statue.

The elf had vanished among the trees, no proof of his existence lingering around the pool, and Tathren was only half-convinced he’d ever been real to begin with; playful water spirits conjuring illusions in moonlight happened in his grandmother’s stories, after all, and that felt more likely than him stumbling on an elf able to transform into a swimming horse in the remote mountains of the northern reaches.

* * *

Returning to camp was slow; Ecthelion’s headlong flight towards the siren call of water could not be mirrored and finding the way back between the rocks was more difficult than he had expected. His feet – which had been so sure before – now seemed to find every sharpness in existence, tripping him up several times, and the serene peace of the waters had been replaced by annoyance well before he caught sight of Elemmakil’s trail marker.

Sometimes the thoughtfulness of his friend astounded him, overwhelming him with gratitude that this remarkable creature had decided to give him his loyalty and friendship, crafting a far happier life for him in the process.

“Did you find your spring?” Elemmakil greeted gently. “You were long gone – I worried that this Stone-Eye had found you.”

Ecthelion just nodded, too full of complicated feelings to speak as he passed by Elemmakil, pausing briefly to squeeze his shoulder in silent gratitude, and fell into his bedroll. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the glittering stars, trying once more to parse the Song he could feel around him, wondering if the Stone-Eye could be found that way; perhaps they might be able to sneak up on it, keeping to blind spots until a treaty of some kind could be secured.

“You should not go off alone, either,” Elemmakil continued, taking a seat on the bedroll spread beside Ecthelion’s. Off to the side, Cemdring yawned as they got up to take his post. “You do not know if you are immune to those powers any more than we do.”

Ecthelion shivered in response; he had not considered that he might have been in danger. He knew Turgon would expect him to kill such a dangerous creature outright, but Ecthelion could not help but feel sick at the thought. Turgon was too rigid at times, too stuck in his one shape, in his firm fastness – Ecthelion often admired his resolve, the way he would follow a decision made to its end without wavering – to see that the strange presence might not be an enemy. The presence in the mountains did not feel horrid like the thing that had grappled with him beneath the Ice, and he was too curious to speak to another who might be like him to risk hurting it unprovoked.

“I am sorry to have worried you,” he replied softly, listening to Cemdring situating themselves on watch for the remainder of the night. Ecthelion wondered at his own conviction that the stranger he sought among the rocks wouldn’t hurt them; nothing he had seen had indicated a peaceful being, _and yet_ …

“I was …” _I needed to wash the nightmare of Kandóra corrupted from my mind._

“You were dreaming of your family, I know,” Elemmakil replied gently. “But I know that they would not wish you risk your life needlessly any more than I would.”

“I am sorry,” Ecthelion sighed, meaning it. “I shall not run off in such a way again.”

“Then I am glad,” Elemmakil offered lightly, reaching over to give him a slight punch in the shoulder. Ecthelion felt the warmth of forgiveness flow through his body, smiling up at the stars.

“If you make me tell Turgon that you’ve got yourself killed by some half-snake,” Elemmakil continued, “I shall be very wroth with you when we meet again.”

“Do you think we should, in such an event?” Ecthelion asked. “Meet again, I mean.”

“If you are of the Ainur, you are even more tied to Arda than I am,” Elemmakil shrugged, pulling his cloak over himself as he lay down. “I should think it likely that you’d get yourself reborn just to torment me with your presence once more.”

Ecthelion laughed. “I think I would – make you give me piggyback rides and play ball games, perhaps.”

“You would be a wee terror of a boy,” Elemmakil shuddered.

“And I’d have a horn all the time, too,” Ecthelion teased. “I still had that when I met Turgon; it took me a long time to learn the trick of hiding it in this form.”

“By which you mean there’d be a better than nil chance of me getting stabbed during our play?” Elemmakil sighed, already resigned to the eventuality.

Ecthelion grinned.

“Go to sleep, my friend,” Elemmakil grumbled. “And stop making me think about a tiny version of you stabbing me in the backside, please.”

“I wouldn’t do it on purpose!” Ecthelion protested, trying not to laugh at the image. “May you find better dreams to wander, my friend,” he added, chuckling lightly.

Elemmakil muttered something unintelligible, falling asleep with admirable swiftness as Ecthelion looked up at the stars, randomly chuckling to himself as he pictured Elemmakil trying to wrangle his own younger self.

_Is he right that we are reborn into the world, sister?_ Ecthelion thought, looking up at the starry brilliance far above. _If I meet you again, will you know my eyes once more… and will I know yours?_

* * *

Tathren also wandered back to his home slowly, lost in thoughts of the waterhorse-turned-elf. He had never heard of such a creature – though he knew enough to know that he probably had not heard of all the iterations of the Ainukin that existed, so that was less surprising – but to think that he could just stumble on someone else who was clearly descended from the powers that shaped the world was at once terrifying and exhilarating.

“I wonder who he is,” he muttered, checking in on Darthoriel, who seemed sound asleep, her warm smell a comfort in the cool night. Running a hand gently down her side, he smiled at the press of a small hoof against his hand. “Soon, my pretty one,” he promised, though the mother to be didn’t stir beyond a flick of a soft ear in his direction. The goat was one he had helped raise, the first daughter of his best milch goat, and Tathren was looking forward to the birth of the kid; not long now, he knew, and hoped that it would be easier for her than it had been for her mother the first time he’d come across her. “You’ll be safe,” he added, rubbing the good spot on her forehead gently. “I’ll pull it if I have to, I promise.”

Darthoriel bleated quietly in response, rasping his wrist with her tongue for a moment before going back to sleep.

In the other end of the pen he had made for Iareg and her kids, Darthoriel’s mother called softly, her newest kid suckling quite happily. Tathren smiled, leaving Darthoriel to her rest and went to greet his first and secretly favourite goat.

“You are well, Iareg?” he asked, running gentle hands down her legs to check for injuries or splinters; during the day the goats roamed the mountainside, scrounging for food among the rocky outcroppings – not always safe in his opinion, but it was their nature and Tathren had learned many seasons before that keeping the goats penned for their own protection did not suit them. “Yes, I think you are,” he murmured, rubbing her head. “And this little guy most certainly is – showing Dart how it’s done, eh?”

Iareg didn’t reply, of course, though he could have sworn she laughed at him.

At least she didn’t try to gore him, now, unlike the first time they’d met, Tathren thought, touching the scar on his upper arm with a slight grin. He had first met Iareg when she was struggling to birth a kid that had died by the time he got there – it was the wrong way round, he’d learned – and her pained cries had been so heartbreaking that he’d pulled the kid from her body before he knew it, only to feel her long horn weakly piercing his arm.

“You were a menace, even then,” he told her fondly, shaking his head when Iareg simply took another mouthful of the rough vegetation, chewing placidly with no regards to the way she had once tried to attack him, earning her bloody name quite literally.

“And here I thought _I_ was the only menace you knew, scale of my scales.”

Tathren whirled around, facing the sudden guest with a smile. “Scalemother Athess!” he called happily, vaulting the fencing easily and catching her up in a hug.

“You have done well for yourself, hatchling,” Athess replied, enveloping him in that scent that had always been uniquely hers even among all the snakes he had met. Flicking her tail out to brush against the snakes hanging down his back, she smiled. “I am glad to find you well,” she added, forked tongue playing with the night breeze for a moment, the long thin pipe in her hand curling smoke towards the stars.

Tathren smiled happily. “I had not expected to see you,” he admitted.

“I had not expected to come,” Athess sighed. “But I could not bear to abandon you without word, hatchling.”

“A-abandon?” Tathren asked, leading the way to the cave he used as his own dwelling.

“I am taking my people – those for whom living beneath Melkor’s yoke is as abhorrent as it is to myself, at least – away from these lands,” Athess said quietly, arranging her coils comfortably beneath her.

Tahren sunk down onto the nest of blankets he slept in. “You’re… you’re leaving?” he asked, feeling young and lost; his father’s mother did not visit often – he had seen her all of three times since he came to these mountains – but the thought of never hearing her voice call him hatchling again, or smell that soft-dust-green- _power_ smell of hers again was hard in a similar, yet different way, to the difficulty of accepting that he would never see his mother’s face again.

“More of my sons and daughters, my sisters and their kin have been lost,” Athess began sadly, “I refuse to sit in my den and await the coming of Melkor’s servants, whispering pretty words in my ears – I do not think he wishes us well at all! Those who have gone into the North as his people have not returned.” She looked at him, and Tathren suddenly realised that Athess, Naga-Queen in her own right, was _afraid_.

“Where will you go?” he asked her sadly.

“ _We_ go south,” she replied, moving sinuously to sit beside him, cupping his chin in her hand. “You should come with me, scale of my scales.”

“But you said…” Tathren felt himself tremble.

“I knew I could not protect you from all threats,” Athess sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, “and if I had taken you in as the son of my son, you would have been forever hunted, dead in some unfortunate ‘accident’… I could not… forgive me, little one, but keeping you safe meant hiding you from those who killed your parents.”

“I know,” Tathren whispered, pressing his forehead against hers for a moment. “But you would now have me go with the Naga?”

“Those who glory in violence and hatred were the first to leave us,” Athess said. “And those who remain my people – I would trust them to do you no harm for my sake – some even for your father’s sake, for he was not friendless among his kin.”

“I am more elf than Naga,” Tathren quipped. “Even if I am no elf at all.”

“I could never fault the dryad queen for the magicks she taught her daughters,” Athess replied drily. “And Antliae was a master at the spellcraft of Yavanna’s daughters. And yet you are the son of my son, and your mother’s dryad blood does not change the fact that you are _my_ kin.”

“My mother is Ruinelloth of the Elanori,” Tathren said. “She gave me a name and a home, she raised me from the babe I was when my parents gave me up – _she is my mother_!”

“And she did well with that. I am more grateful to her than she will ever know, hatchling,” Athess admitted. “But you are still not an elf in full, despite how you were raised.” Tracing her thumb round the outer corner of his eye, she gave him a small soft smile. “You have your father’s eyes, scale of my scale.”

“And your scales, I know,” Tathren replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I can _control_ it now – I know I can!”

“Of course _,_ you can! _I_ taught you,” Athess chuckled, uncoiling her long body in a sinuous stretch. “And yet you live here, alone and lonely, hatchling,” she added. “I worry for you, so close to the Mighty One.”

“I am fine, Scalemother,” Tathren sighed. Athess might think that her power could keep him safe within a select group of his father’s kin – and she might be right, Tathren wouldn’t know – but he had never truly felt like a Naga, and even though she was right in that his life was a lonely one here, it did not feel right to uproot himself to follow a people to whom he would always be odd, not only for being as raised an elf, but for being born at all.

And then there was the mysterious waterhorse-elf, who filled him with curiosity beyond the bounds he had long-since set for his own existence.

“Will you think about it, at least?” Athess asked.

Tathren nodded. He appreciated that in her; Athess spoke her piece and then let him form his own thoughts on a matter. She was not given to cajoling or other excessive ways of manipulating her target.

“Then I shall watch the stars while you sleep, scale of my scales,” Athess offered gently, caressing his cheek in passing as she left the cave, coiling up on the large flattish stone where he liked to lay on hot days and bask in the warmth of the sun.

Tathren took a long time to fall asleep.

When he did, he dreamt of horses running beneath water and laughing in the moonlight.


	3. Chapter 3

“There are elves in the mountains,” Athess remarked when he rose from the bearskin that covered his nest of pine branches in the morning.

“I know,” Tathren said, stretching in the morning light. “They have found the valley below – they’re building, it seems to me; I think they are not from Doriath, though.”

“I meant that there is a group travelling in _these_ mountains,” Athess chuckled, giving him a look that said she knew he was trying to change the subject and felt amused by his lack of subtlety. “I see you have encountered them.”

“Not really…” Tathren admitted, settling beside her with a small yawn that grew into a content groan when Athess began carding her fingers through his hair, untangling the snakes as she went. “I did see one of them,” he continued a while later, “though he appeared as a horse playing in the waters of the waterfall pool at first.”

“A skinwalker?” Athess asked. “I had not thought there were elven walkers – those of our kin who birthed that race of Men are long-dead; it was their wont to experience Arda through as many eyes as they might, and in the end they forgot they had ever been other than the animal whose shapes they took… but their children did not, and shared the gift of changing their shapes long after their Ainu ancestors had vanished into nothingness.”

“Perhaps he was not an elf?” Tathren wondered, though he had been quite certain at the time – he had seen Men, of course, though not many, and the waterhorse had not shared their solidity; Men belonged to the world around them, he had always thought, and it showed in their bodies. “I could not see him clearly after he changed.”

“Perhaps we shall go look for these elves,” Athess suggested, the grin on her face mischievous at best; to an elf it would have too much fang to be anything but frightening, Tathren knew, but he had not feared his grandmother’s wilder nature since the first time she had found him. Athess’ golden eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

Tathren laughed.

“Only to look,” he said, trying for sternness even though he knew that commanding Athess Naga-Queen was a futile endeavour for anyone, even a favoured grandson. “I don’t want to scare them.” Then he sobered. “I have hurt too many elves already…”

“As you wish, hatchling,” Athess said kindly, tugging playfully on one of the snakes. Stirring from her seat on the rock, she smiled at him, holding out a hand. “Come along, then.”

* * *

In the morning, Ecthelion tried not to notice the odd looks he received from the rest of his party; he was used to odd looks now and again – he never had forgotten the part revulsion part amazement that had coloured Lady Anairë’s face when she noticed him shoving an entire egg, shell included, into his mouth and crunching it with all enjoyment.

The looks faded by midday – they had discovered a whole set of statues this time and the fascinated revulsion of his companions was entirely taken up by the three stone orcs caught in their last moments alive; one seemed to have been surprised, one appeared to be snarling, brandishing an ugly-looking mace covered with spikes, and the last one had clearly been the most intelligent of the group.

It had tried to run away, and Ecthelion wondered if it had dared to steal from the Stone Eye: it was missing a hand, very clearly smashed off the statue after its formation.

“A vengeful act, that,” Faerel muttered to herself, making the now familiar motion to ward off Darkness – Ecthelion heard her whisper a small prayer for protection alongside it, as though she could call the Girdle of Melian to cover her for but a moment.

They had seen no other signs of life in the mountains beyond a few goats haring off up a seemingly sheer cliff wall, as well as a hissing snake that had threatened attack when Eglosser got too close, and a couple of hares that Faerel had shot before any of them had even noticed the small creatures.

Ecthelion exchanged a look with Elemmakil when she held them up in triumph, receiving a heavy sigh in return though they both congratulated the young Sinda.

“There’s good stone up here,” Cemdring nodded by midday, running their hands over a large boulder. “Though not an easy place to build a quarry – and if it is the home a bloodthirsty monster, I should not wish to disturb him just for a bit of stone.”

“Turgon shall decide,” Ecthelion said, “though I thought he intended to build mostly with the limestone we found in the island’s underground.”

“Aye, and a pretty sight it shall be, too, all gleaming white,” Cemdring nodded, “but you, fountainmaker, cannot be satisfied with limestone, I’m sure.”

“I… no, you’re right,” Ecthelion said, suddenly remembering that the entire reason he was here – at least in the minds of most of his companions – was to search for stone that would build statues and fountains, stone that would _last_ when carved into great beauty and sprouting water.

For a moment, he wondered what sort of stone the terrible statues were made from; an amusing image of a great snake turning wooden carvings into stone statues used to decorate his fountains flashed through his mind.

Ecthelion shook his head, trying to clear it of such foolishness.

“We should also ascertain the viability of aqueducts,” he replied instead, “even though we can draw water from the lake, I fear we shall need more than might naturally flow into it from these slopes once the inhabitants of Nevrast join us.”

“We should also ascertain the viability of aqueducts,” he replied instead, “even though we can draw water from the lake, I fear we shall need more than might naturally flow into it from these slopes once the inhabitants of Nevrast join us.”

“Those I can make,” Cemdring nodded thoughtfully. “There's a good drop between us and the valley - if we can find a spring, it should be little trouble - no more than a year or two to build it, I mean - to sort out a supply of water.”

“I found a river last night,” Ecthelion said.

“So you went for a swim, eh?” they teased. ”Leaving the poor Captain watching the mountainside like a hawk but unwilling to abandon the rest of us to search for you.”

“Trust me,” Ecthelion replied drily, ”Elemmakil has already lectured me on my foolishness in that matter - but I could not remain in my bed, too easy prey for dark dreams, and the water was refreshing in many ways.” He smiled to himself. “I found a small river with a waterfall tumbling into a reasonably deep pool; it was a friendly place to me.”

“Well, then you can show me the way to this 'friendly place',” Cemdring chuckled, “and I shall get you water in the Hidden City.”

* * *

The waterhorse-elf was not alone, Tathren realised, when they found the elves. Hiding behind a small boulder, he watched the way the elf leaned his head back, laughing at whatever the wheat-haired elf beside him was saying. And yet he was alone, too, careful observation said, keeping himself separate from the group he led in a myriad of small ways.

“That one is their leader,” Athess said, nodding at the darkhaired elf from her position beside him, resting on her elbows, as her long tail stretched out behind them where they lay, high on a shelf in the rock that protected them from discovery by those below.

“He is the one who was a horse,” Tathren nodded.

Athess' tongue played across the scents in the air, but he knew that even for her senses they were too far from the elves to know anything definite; the wind was blowing away from them, but since their quarry was Elven, not animal in nature, Athess had agreed with him that the vantage point would work to their advantage.

“Such a strange thought,” she murmured. “That there should be an elf skinwalker. I wonder what his blood would taste like…”

“No stranger than an almost-elf Naga-Dryad boy, surely,” Tathren chuckled, ignoring the latter half of her musings. Nagi were not habitual blooddrinkers – though he knew there were Ainu-kindred whose sustenance came mainly from the veins of others, flying across the skies on silent leathery wings – but Athess’ sense of taste could detect even the faint traces of the Song that lingered in the blood of any child of an Ainu even generations after the first child was born.

“No,” Athess grinned at him, one of his snakes curling over her shoulder until she reached up to stroke its small head. “No stranger than that, I'm sure.” Rubbing her thumb over a slightly dry patch of scaly skin, she looked back down to where the elves were picking their way through the rocky ground – they had lost themselves in an area plentiful in little but scree, and their footing was precarious despite their light graceful steps. “Do you think they were led to the valley?” she asked. “You always told me there were no paths but yours down through the Ringing Mountains.”

Tathren shrugged. He had no true suggestion as to how the elves had found their way to the valley he had called home for a such a long time; he preferred the rocky mountainside with its boulders and the company of his goats, but he still considered the valley his home alongside it, spending days hunting through its forests for deer and other small game, picking necessary herbs to bring back for drying.

“I have seen no tracks of an advance scouting party,” Tathren added. “The Yrch know better than to attempt crossing my path, by now, and even the Dark One’s flying servants tend to shy away from the reach of the Eagles.”

“So if they did not find this land,” Athess mused, studying the group below. “Perhaps they were told by one who had no need to find it at all…”

“I think they might be planning to stay,” Tathren said cautiously. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about such a thing as an elven settlement so close to his home; it had been so long since he had lived among the People, so long since he had sworn to keep away from their fragile bodies until he could control his father’s curse.

But he had learned control and perhaps… no, that was a foolish thought.

Turning his head, he looked at the sharp curve of Athess’ jaw, an echo of shape in his own face, opening his mouth to ask her thoughts when he felt himself pressed flat against the stone.

“Hush,” Athess hissed, eyes flashing gold as her tongue flicked across the breeze around them.

* * *

“I feel watched,” Elemmakil grumbled, helping Eglosser over a particularly treacherous bit of scree. “It’s too easy to imagine an ambush in a place like this.”

Ecthelion nodded silently, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to avoid slipping. “Yes.” He felt one foot slip, catching himself with a hand too slow to avoid the burning feeling of skin scraped raw through his clothes. Muttering a low curse, he got to his feet once more.

“Up there,” Elemmakil added, lifting a hand to shade his eyes for a moment. “Yrch – or this mythical Stone Eye of Eglosser’s – could easily hide up there, waiting for us to get in range of a thrown boulder.”

Raising his head, Ecthelion copied the move, looking up at the sheer cliff wall they had been heading for, crowned by an uneven rim of boulders. Elemmakil was right, he realised with a shiver; the rocks could hide more than one enemy with ease.

“We could circle back,” he suggested, “look for a fairer path.”

Elemmakil nodded once before splitting the air with a harsh whistle.

* * *

“They’re leaving?” Tathren wondered, raising his head and rubbing dust off his cheek when Athess’ hand disappeared from his neck.

Athess frowned.

“They would not have seen us,” she finally decided, “but the going was treacherous and their end indiscernible to them; I, too, might have chosen to look for a better path.”

“They seem to be searching for something…” Tathren followed the small group of elves with his eyes as they slipped and slid back down the scree-covered slope. The wheathaired warrior who had made his waterhorse laugh grabbed the hand of a slight male who seemed a little familiar to his eyes, his palehaired head leaning towards the gold one as he listened. Besides those three, the waterhorse had brought a silverhaired huntress whose dress suggested a Doriathren woodwalker heritage; Tathren was well familiar with the stylings favoured by those hunters. The long braid bouncing down her back had been woven in with bits that gleamed in the light, so she might not be a huntress herself, but she was as lithe and nimble as the haughty wood elves he recalled. The darkhaired one most often found beside his waterhorse was a warrior, however, no possible doubt in Tathren’s mind, even if he hadn’t been dressed in what looked to be metal clothing or carried a long sword on his back; the way he carried himself spoke of a confidence born of prowess in dispatching an enemy – Tathren knew it well.

“Water, perhaps?” Athess suggested, shrugging carelessly as she pushed herself a little higher.

“I suppose sending a waterhorse to find water would be sensible,” Tathren agreed. “But he isn’t leading them to the river it seems…”

“A most peculiar creature,” Athess agreed. “Perhaps it is time I meet this ‘waterhorse’ of yours…”

“Please don’t,” Tathren groaned, turning onto his back to look up along Athess’ sinuous curves till he caught her goldengreen eyes. “I don’t want them killed.”

“Well I wasn’t going to just _attack_ them,” Athess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m capable of a _little_ self-control, hatchling.”

“Yes, but you’re half snake!” Tathren exclaimed, pushing off the rock to get to his feet and dust off his grubby clothes. “Those are _strangers_ , scalemother – who knows if they can tell a naga from a monster of the Shadow?” He glanced back over his shoulder but the group of elves had disappeared from view. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt…” He sighed. “I don’t want _them_ to get hurt either… and they would be, if they attacked you.”

“Well at least you don’t doubt my abilities,” Athess huffed.

“Nor the abilities of whichever of your children is guarding you this time,” Tathren replied drily.

“Your senses have improved, scale of my scales,” Athess replied warmly, reaching out to hug him tight against her soft bosom. “I’m very proud.”

Tathren blushed slightly, though he felt himself sink into the soft warmth of her embrace almost without will; it had been so long since he had last felt arms around him in comfort, and he wanted to stay like that forever if he could.

“I used to think you came to see me alone,” he admitted, “though I should have known you’d not be so reckless.”

“I am rarely alone, hatchling,” Athess mumbled. “Though only one of my sons know where I go when I am with you… I would not invite harm to come to you if I could spare you.”

“I am Srama, son of Athess,” a new voice, low and pleasantly raspy, said. “Your father, Serizhess, was my clutchbrother and friend.”

Tathren’s eyes widened as he pulled away from Athess’s warm arms to stare over her shoulder at the first other naga he had ever seen.

Greenscaled and blue-eyed, his skin was a deep gleaming hazel colour that matched his hair, plaited into several tiny braids capped with bone beads and decorated with colourful feathers. Strong arms were ringed by as many golden bracelets as Athess always wore, engraved with similar symbols.

The naga – Srama, apparently? – bowed. “I greet thee, son of my brother.”

Tathren bowed back woodenly, helped by Athess’ gentle hand on his back, too lost in staring at this new relative.

“I… had not thought to ever see another of your kind, scalemother…” he whispered, taking an unconscious step forward. Srama’s warm skin met his fingers, but it was the strong arms wrapping around his body, lifting him off the ground with a hoarse joyful laugh that sparked the smile on his face.

“Srama has long wished to reveal himself to you,” Athess smiled once Srama had set Tathren back on his feet. “But I told him he should not overwhelm you with his sudden presence if you were not ready.”

“It was time, Mama,” Srama said, though the bow he offered her seemed almost apologetic.

Athess nodded to him, at once a picture of maternal pride and stern but benevolent ruler, “I agree,” she said. “It was time.” Looking up at the sky, she waved them both off ahead of her with a slightly impatient gesture. “As it is now time to return to the den before these clouds burst with their promised thunder.”

“Yes, Mama,” Srama said, eyes laughing, and obediently turned for home.

Tathren walked beside him as he slithered across the uneven landscape, unable to stop himself glancing at Srama every now and again and wondering if his own father had been similarly built and attired; Athess had told him he took after her with the pale and gold scales, though she had marvelled at the combination of naga and dryad traits found in his physical form – the snakes that grew from his skull had clearly come from Serizhess, though the fact that they grew _there_ was due his mother’s blood she said, as dryads usually had vines or thin branches growing from their heads like the hair of the Children.

He often wondered what he might have looked like if Antliae had not transformed him so young, wondered if his skin was bark-like and brown beneath the soft paleness that looked indistinguishable from Elven skin. Except that now, looking at Srama as well as Athess herself, he realised that he probably always would have had skin of some kind – and he was honestly quite pleased with that. Looking too strange to himself one morning might be worse even than waking up with the power to freeze a body into immobile stone with a wrathful look. He didn’t really mind the snakes – they were company, of a sort, even if it was painful to unknot them when they got too tangled – but he liked having legs rather than a long scaled tail.

* * *

Further down the mountainside, Ecthelion’s group had returned to the campsite of the night before with far more ease than expected after the arduous climb of the day.

“I must have gone a different way in the night,” he sighed, falling into a crouch beside Elemmakil who was trying to start a fire. “We should have found that river today.” It annoyed him that he couldn’t smell the water or feel its draw on his soul while holding the elven shape together, but sneaking off to transform into his more eldritch self would be frowned upon by the others – and he would not risk someone like Faerel sneaking off after him to catch sight of what would to her look like an enemy – a nightmare made flesh.

“A different route, certainly,” Elemmakil shrugged, poking desultorily at the small flame that didn’t seem to want to catch on the bigger pieces of firewood Cemdring had found them.

“Rain is in the air,” Ecthelion replied absentmindedly, drawing in a great heaving lungful of the refreshing feeling. “I think you’ll have no hot meal this night, friend – no matter how ardently you stoke the fire.”

“Not for the first time in my life,” Elemmakil replied grouchily, dropping the stick with a sigh. “You better not run off to dance in the rain or whatever it is you like to do when it storms,” he added, leaning his head back to take in the sky that seemed to have turned bruised-purple and angry-looking from one moment to the next, the wind beginning to rush through crags and gaps in the rock with an eerie wail.

“Cemdring and Eglosser are building shelters in that stand of pine,” Faerel informed them, appearing as silently as only the Sindarin woodsmen could.

Ecthelion managed to conceal his startlement – he had been too distracted by the glorious images in the clouds above, a few still limned with the golden light of the sun they had chased away – though Elemmakil got to his feet at once, abandoning the meagre attempt at a fire to stride towards the trees.

With a slight sigh – he really would have rather danced naked among the tears of the heavens – Ecthelion got to his feet and followed, Faerel giving the clouds suspicious glances beside him.

“It won’t break just yet,” he told her, though he could feel the first refreshing droplets begin to mist onto his skin. “And I think it shall not last the night – weather in the mountains is oft-changing.”

“Hrmpf,” Faerel grunted in response, though she did stop glaring at the pregnant skies over their heads, focusing on where she put her feet instead; the ground here was stony, still, even if it wasn’t covered in treacherous scree, and no one wished to break an ankle this far from home.

* * *

Darthoriel was still her large gravid self when they got back to his cave, and Tathren breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t help but worry for her; pulling her first dead kid from Iareg had been a traumatic experience for both of them and though he wasn’t certain she even remembered the terrible day in the mountains, Tathren hoped to spare Dart from her mother’s ordeal.

“A fine goat,” Srama nodded, leaning on the raw timber railing around the pen. “Seri had a way with animals, too… I am glad that you have inherited some of his spirit.”

“My grandmother’s sister herded sheep with our clan,” Tathren replied, running his hands down Dart’s legs to check for injuries and ticks while she chewed placidly on a tasty tuft of dry grass. “I was set to watch them early along with other children.”

“I am doubly glad you were found by good people,” Srama replied. “When my brothers…” He shook his head, looking away from Tathren to let his eyes roam across the small homestead.

“Athess told me she had thought me long dead by the time she found me,” Tathren replied cautiously.

“I think the number of my kin who knew Seri’s dryad bride was with child was limited to Mama and myself, perhaps a few more. Of course, after Gremmill betrayed them your existence became a widespread rumour; the dryads would never have let a child of our blood mingled with theirs live, and Mama… we could not save Seri or Antliae, but she would have whisked you away to safety far beyond the reach of any of the Queen’s trees if she could.”

“She saved me, later,” Tathren shrugged. He could feel Srama’s sadness when he talked of his brother – and even some almost unexpected sorrow when he spoke of his mother – but he could hardly claim to share it, remembering neither of his first parents. “After I…”

“Dryad magicks are strong – in ways of the physical they’re stronger than ours – but an inborn gift such as the Eyes of Stone…” Srama paused, tongue flicking once across his lips. “No,” he chuckled, “I should think only the hand of one of the Powers might have been able to hide it for all your days.” Then he grew serious once more. “I wish for your sake that she had not done it – learning control as you grow is a vital part of any naga warrior’s training; I admire that you control it so well for one who was ambushed by the ability, in truth.”

“And who could have taught me, hidden among the People?” Tathren asked philosophically as he tried to banish his beloved grandmother’s stone-formed smile from his memory.

“A fair point,” Srama conceded. “In a better world you would have been taught by both your parents – we know not how much of Antliae’s nature is in you, now, and perhaps you never will unlock what abilities her blood might have given you.”

“If I never kill someone by tearing their flesh apart with the roots of a tree, I shall count it no great loss,” Tathren replied mulishly.

Srama laughed. “Another excellent point,” he chuckled, “though I had thought more along the lines of sprouting flowers where you went or restoring the vitality of barren lands… Antliae, unlike some of her sisters, was no warrior.”

“We should head for the cave,” Tathren said, just as the first droplets began to fall, dotting the dust beneath his feet.

Srama stretched, and suddenly the great naga warrior was gone in favour of a snake of similar colouring about as thick as Tathren’s arm slithering towards the promised dryness of his home.

Shaking his head in amusement, Tathren followed. The ability to transform his shape entirely was one he did envy the naga; he had learned through Athess’ patient if no-nonsense teachings how to conceal the snakes growing from his scalp and make them appear like Elven hair of a golden colour that matched their scales, and how to stop an annoyed glance from petrifying its target, but that was the extent of his Song-related abilities.

* * *

 _Come to me_ , a pleasant voice echoed in the rain, slightly rough, but nice on the ear. Ecthelion smiled. The voice was friendly, curious, and carried the scent of petrichor as it whispered across his mind. _Come to me, child_. _Hear my voice and come find me._

_I’m coming!_

Waking in a daze, Ecthelion picked his way through the sleeping bodies; Cemdring had drawn the unenviable task of keeping watch, sheltering beneath several cloaks near the entrance to their ingenious hideout, but he just nodded at them as though he meant to leave to answer a call of nature.

 _I am a call of nature_ , she – Ecthelion was quiet certain the earthy voice belonged to a female of some kind – echoed in his thoughts, making him chuckle as he stepped out into the rain that still fell, dripping coolly from the tip of his nose.

He sneezed, losing hold of his carefully put together elven shape and feeling freer for it, uncaring if Cemdring should see his skin shift into patterns that echoed his fur, and ducked between the thick trunks of a pair of aged pine trees, old needles soft beneath his feet.

_Wait for me!_

It was less a cry than a thought, sent up towards the rain-grey clouds, unvoiced yet loud enough he thought it might be heard all the way to the camp where Turgon’s city was being planned.

 _Do you mean to guide me to safety for my people?_ _Was Turgon’s vision true?_

Stumbling near-blindly among the trees and sudden boulders, Ecthelion felt his heart swell with a surge of hope; the voice was unfamiliar, but kind, dry as it whispered words only he could hear, and he was reminded of the gentle calm of his old teacher in the herd.

_Where are you?_

_Climb to me, little one, come find where I dwell among rock and stone, up where the trees grow tall and spindly._

Ecthelion did not know how far he had climbed when the rain stopped, but he kept going, moving slowly upwards and passing unclear shadows in the night that might have been more of the Stone Eye’s statues.

But he was not afraid, for she promised safety in every sound, beckoning him ever onwards.

“What are you doing?” Tathren exclaimed, watching Athess – not at work with his knitting needles as she had been – swaying gently, her long thick body undulation hypnotically as she hummed a continuous sound that skittered down his spine in a manner he could not quite decide if he liked or loathed. An energy hovered around her, as the low note reverberated around his cavern home, setting his teeth on edge.

Athess did not respond, her eyes glowing with an eerie light.

“She is in some sort of trance – exploring the Song, I’d guess,” Srama said quietly behind him. “Best you do not,” he added, putting his hand on Tathren’s forearm and drawing it down before he could touch Athess and attempt to return her to his familiar and loving if somewhat terrifying grandmother instead of this eldritch vision. “She may tell us her purpose later, hatchling, but for now let us leave her be.” Looking around the room, he nodded to himself as though making sense of it from a new height and Tathren realised that his uncle must have visited before when he went straight for the lidded bowl where he kept his tea, measuring out a scoop of the dried leaves with a slight hum.

For lack of better to do, Tathren set to work on providing sustenance, the dough he had set to rise in the morning quickly shaped into small loaves that could be baked in the clay oven set among the coals of the fire.

He kept looking back at Athess, her shape solidly set in the mouth of the cavern and yet shifting with every breath as though her skin was not quite solid enough to hold her spirit.

He shivered.

“Do not be afraid, little one,” Srama murmured, giving him a gentle smile as he poured chopped roots and vegetables into the pot Tathren had hung on a clever spit crafted from an orc’s metal spear.

When Srama grinned at him, touching the former weapon, Tathren shrugged. He was no miner, and if the metal goods of Angband were crude they were still metal and he had not splintered too many before realising how one could bend another into a shape more useful to him.

“Athess knows what she does,” Srama continued, gesturing airily towards his mother, “she was in this world long before the lamps stopped glowing in the sky.”

The reassurance did not make the sight or sound of her trancelike hum less eerie, Tathren felt, attempting to close his ears to it entirely as he focused on his food, withdrawing a side of deer from the cool storage further in the cave; it could be spit beside the pot, roasting over the fire as they drank Srama’s tea.

“How… how old are you?” Tathren wondered.

“Young enough,” Srama shrugged, “my clutch hatched shortly after the Battle of the Greatest Ones, when the… you call them Valar, I think? – forced the walls of Utumno and captured Might Arisen, taking him beyond the sea to their dwelling whence he later returned.”

“And my… Serizhess was in this clutch?” Tathren asked. Srama did not appear aged beyond years to his eyes, but Tathren suddenly realised that he was older than grandmother Idhrenes by quite a span.

“Naga are long-lived,” Srama shrugged, “some could say too stubborn to die; under Athess we have seen the hatching of two clutches since mine, and I do not know when we shall see another.”

“When I am satisfied that they shall not be offered up to the Dark Power for his heinous crafts,” Athess hissed behind them.

Tathren jumped, clutching the spitted roast as he turned to look at her.

Athess smiled, and Tathren had to wonder if the hatred he had seen in her eyes for a moment had truly been there or simply a trick of the light.

“I take it your purpose was fulfilled, Mama?” Srama asked, rescuing the roast from Tathren’s numb fingers and setting the spit carefully in its rack.

“We are to receive a visitor, yes,” Athess nodded, relaxing onto the skin where Tathren slept. “The shape-changing elf is more closely bound to the Song than I had expected – his dreams were not hard to find, nor difficult to draw near to me.”

“What have you done?” Tathren groaned.

“He comes alone,” Athess appeased. “I shall not leave you to fend for yourself against such unknowns when we are here to help – the waterhorse will not harm you, sweet hatchling, I promise.” She didn’t say it, but Tathren knew she meant to discover the purpose of the elves – and he was not so foolish as to think she would not kill them if she thought it would keep him safe.

“Don’t kill him, please,” Tathren replied. “I don’t… I don’t want it to die.” The creature now heading for his home had been so pretty in the moonlight; destroying beauty had always seemed a shame to him.

Athess patted his hand gently. “We shall see, hatchling,” she said, which was not a promise though Tathren knew better than to protest or demand a sworn word. “We shall see.”

* * *

There was a cave, the entrance glowing with the flickering light of a fire though Ecthelion saw no smoke rising. Nestled at the base of a pair of sheer cliff arms the opening seemed in turns welcoming and a gaping maw; the voice that had sung in the rain had silenced, and his apprehensions had returned to the fore.

Cautiously, he moved closer, startled by a loud sound – bleating? – from a shadowed corner where one cliffside curved, a small shed built into its nestling arms and thatched with old branches of pine; someone had built some fencing, lashing unhewn logs to posts and lining them with thorny branches facing outwards. Clearly someone lived here, and more than as a temporary shelter if they had livestock; breathing in, he could smell the soothing scent of good sundried hay and grass, overlain by the somewhat pungent smell of goats.

Voices floated in the night air, and Ecthelion wondered if he was about to prove Elemmakil’s fears true and wander into an ambush. And still he continued, feeling that echo of the Song calling to him, not quite as powerful as when his grandmother spoke her words of light and yet familiar in essence if not in tone; the lady who had called him here was old, then, and not far removed in blood from the Great Powers. Breathing in he tried to focus past the goats and the burning smell and the petrichor rising around him, recognising the sound-feel that had spurred him to seek out Turgon what felt like so long ago.

 _I have found… you_.

Because the one who had come to meet him looked elven, golden hair streaming down his broad shoulders – built strongly, like Turgon, he noted – in large waves that didn’t quite curl, but seemed to spin the light of the fire behind him into golden strands that gleamed at him.

“You’re… an elf?” Ecthelion mumbled, beyond confused. Never had he met an elf whose presence stirred the song around him in such a way; only Ainu-kindred had that ability, and they were _rare_ in Endorë, the few he had met corrupted beyond his ken and inspiring only fear.

Yet this elf… inspired awe.

“Yes,” the stranger replied, “and you are not wholly a horse, yet not wholly Eldar, either,” he added thoughtfully, voice soft in its Sindarin lilt, sounding similar to those of Doriath yet not quite, closer to the people of Lady Rúin’s and Galdor’s tribes.

“I told you to be hospitable, hatchling,” another voice called from further inside the cave.

Ecthelion recognised her as the one who had sounded in his dreams, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to go to her, drawn as if by invisible strings.

“Will you join us – my family and myself – for a meal?” the elf said. “I grant you all rights of a guest beneath my roof.” The last part he spoke louder, which didn’t fill Ecthelion with the same reassurance of safety and welcome that he had followed up the mountain.

And still he nodded, suddenly desperate to speak to another who heard the Song as he did.

“I, Tathren of the mountains, welcome thee, stranger,” the elf responded, adding a strangely formal half-bow that made Ecthelion forget to wonder why a mountain-dweller would be named for a willow tree.

* * *

Srama had turned himself into a snake once more, Tathren realised, looking at his uncle so casually draped over Athess’s shoulders – a perfect vantage point for attacking someone getting too close, he realised, watching the lazy play of his tongue between gleaming fangs as he tasted the sudden unease of their guest.

“The Mother of my sire,” Tathren introduced, nodding at Athess. It had been a while since he had been so formal, but the occasion seemed to warrant it and the stranger did not disappoint, though Tathren struggled not to chuckle at the way his mouth fell open when he realised that Athess was partly a giant snake. “Athess, the Emerald Queen of Naga.”

“Ecthelion, they call me,” he said, bowing courteously. “Though my mother named me in a different tongue.”

“We have watched you and your companions stumble through the mountains,” Athess opened, “yet you seem to have little interest in its bounties…. What else might an elven settler seek, I wonder?”

“Let us dispense with these pleasantries, Lady Naga,” Ecthelion replied. “As I see you are no elf, so you know I am not – my companions and I do not seek the same goal.”

“Ah,” she said, running a lazy hand down the scaly curve of the snake wrapped around her shoulders. “You came to seek the son of my son who dwells here, who has made these lands his own, protected them from the Mighty Dark Arisen – why?” And suddenly her eyes were unbearably bright, and Ecthelion felt truth torn from him without will at her behest.

“I felt a presence – I wished… I wished it to be mine kindred,” he admitted, feeling wrung-out and worn when the words left his lips, staggering slightly as her gaze left his.

“Feed the boy, hatchling,” she ordered gently, her smile now genuine and warm in a way that made Ecthelion miss his grandmother fiercely. “He has come far, and he is well weary.”

Dazedly, he accepted the proffered bowl of stew – assorted vegetables topped with roast venison – and a spoon, eating almost without noticing.

“The Elves mean to stay in the valley, then?” Tathren asked, reminding Ecthelion of his presence.

“Our…” Ecthelion cleared his throat, accepting a proffered horn filled with fresh water though it left him awkwardly holding his bowl and spoon in one hand, “Our king had a vision of a hidden city – of safety,” he said haltingly, unclear on how much he could share with these strange-but-familiar people, and yet unwilling to lie when Queen Athess’ golden eyes were fixed on him. “Ulmo… he led us to the Hidden Valley, there to build a place beyond Morgoth’s – the Enemy’s – reach.”

“A worthy pursuit,” Athess nodded as the snake curled down over her bare chest to coil itself up on the skins. “Your king is familiar with the children of the Ainur, then?”

“Slightly,” Ecthelion admitted, eyeing the large snake warily. “He knows of me and mine, and of the Alkonosts who served the Winged King afore they were destroyed.”

“There are more of you?” Tathren asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Ecthelion shook his head, feeling his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. “Not anymore,” he muttered. “My mother and sister were killed with the Trees, and my Da… I do not know where his grief brought him, but I no longer sense his echo in the Song, and the herd…” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat – for a moment, he almost wished to have even just the snide tones of his cousin Tintele’s voice back – that tasted like the existential loneliness he had never been able to assuage since the day his family was lost to him. “I am alone but for one among the Noldor, and I have not met any Sindarin peoples who carry the blood of Ainur in my time on these shores.”

“And will your king respect this dwelling, I wonder?” Athess murmured, gently stroking the snake’s head. “I shall be wroth with any who would attack this scale of my scales, even if Tathren grant you leave to settle in these lands he has protected for so long.”

“I… cannot make promises for my king,” Ecthelion admitted, “but – if he sees that you are of sentient mind, a creature of honour; a treaty could be made.” Looking back at Tathren, he was struck by the way the low light of the fire made his golden hair gleam, almost appearing as though it were alive and moving of its own accord in gentle coils and waves. “He will not abandon the dream of a safe home for his people that Ulmo offered him, however – and even a warrior such as you could not stand against all the force he might bring.”

“The victory would be neither sweet nor easy,” Tathren shrugged and it sounded like a promise to Ecthelion’s ears. “I am not without powers of my own for all that I do not have scalemother Athess’ skills at dream-weaving.”

“I do not doubt it,” Ecthelion admitted. “We have seen the… _statues_.”

Tathren’s smile gleamed sharply in the low light.

* * *

“Will you meet with my King?” Ecthelion asked, following behind Tathren whose stride was far easier in these hills than he would have expected of any elf, never waving in their surety of direction.

Those broad shoulders shrugged once.

“I shall think on it. I bear him no ill will, but I do not wish to leave my den any time soon – my sweet Darthoriel will give birth soon, and I _will_ be there to help her.”

Ecthelion felt his stomach do a strange flip at the thought of what Tathren having a wife and child that he didn’t quite understand.

“Someone is coming,” Tathren said, and then he was gone, disappeared like a Sindar among trees.

“Wait!” Ecthelion called, spinning around himself, “Don’t go!”

“There you are!” Elemmakil bellowed, and Ecthelion felt all air driven from his lungs by a well-aimed fist in his gut. “Didn’t I specifically tell you _not_ to go running of into the night?!” Elemmakil seethed.

Ecthelion wheezed slightly in defence, though Elemmakil waved off any excuse he might attempt, hauling him back to his feet with a wary glance around them.

Ecthelion thought he heard the sound of a low laugh coming from somewhere to his right, leaning his weight on his knees as he tried to regain the ability to breathe.

“You… brute,” he finally wheezed, turning his head to glare up at Elemmakil’s stern face. “Was that really… necessary?”

“Yes.” Elemmakil enunciated clearly. “I asked you not to worry me in these orc-infested mountains – and you hared off anyway!”

“Hardly orc-infested,” Tathren offered casually, popping up from the low brush like that was the wisest thing to do and taking a step back when Elemmakil swung his greatsword at him. “I dislike orcs – and they’ve learned the lesson well.”

Ecthelion managed to reach out and squeeze Elemmakil’s arm, aborting the attack before he could charge.

“Lord Tathren,” he said, trying to regain some sense of formality – the title was hardly inappropriate, after all – as he straightened, forcing himself to breathe normally. “May I introduce you to the Captain of my guard, Elemmakil of the House of the Fountains.” Pressing against Elemmakil’s back, he was relieved to feel him bow, even if it was not nearly as respectful as it could have been.

“A star shines upon our meeting, Captain,” Lord Tathren replied.

Elemmakil said nothing, though Ecthelion smiled when he recognised the lilting Sindarin of Tathren’s tongue as close to the sounds of the semi-nomadic clans that Galdor had shaped into the House of the Tree; not Doriath-born, this solitary elf with naga-kin, which would make Turgon more likely to favour him.

“Where are the others?” Ecthelion asked.

“Faerel demanded to track you, but I lost her at some point – this mountainside might as well be the King’s maze in Tirion!”

“You will have sheltered in the grove of pines ringed by blue flowers, if your woodsman has any skill at all,” Tathren shrugged casually, the dark outline of him visible against the stars. Ecthelion was almost certain he was smiling. “It is not far, though the night is dark,” he added, and suddenly they were walking once more, passing around a few larger boulders and a thicket of brambles and then Cemdring’s small fire was visible as a distant glow.

Ecthelion breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that there were three figures around the small fire; Faerel had returned, probably when she realised Elemmakil was no longer with her, and the slight worry he had harboured for her lifted in his breast.

“I should like to offer you refreshment,” Ecthelion said, watching as the sky lightened slightly in the east. Dawn was coming, he knew, feeling uplifted by the thought; he had never had much to do with Arien, but the sight of her so gloriously bright always warmed him as much as the rays of the Sun she steered.

“I will linger only briefly,” Tathren replied after a few moments of thought. “I should return to my home.” He looked at Elemmakil, the grin now almost teasing as the first light of the sun began to reveal dimly lit features Ecthelion recalled from the cave; the whole meeting with Athess now seemed distant and dreamlike, but he knew that Tathren was real, and it was a comfort.

He finally knew what the echo in the song had been, walking beside him in the predawn light, and for the first time since he had first sensed it, he felt hopeful.

Turgon would like Tathren, he thought, even if as a distant ally – they could build a safe haven and live as neighbours without squabble, he was sure, and Ecthelion would volunteer to be Turgon’s emissary if ever he needed.

“So, did you find the Stone Eye?” Elemmakil asked quietly.

Ecthelion felt more than saw Tathren’s shoulders tense, waiting for an attack.

“I did,” he confirmed, “but we have an understanding – Lord Tathren has agreed to meet with the King on behalf of the naga people.”

“Your people may settle in the valley,” Tathren shrugged. “It will easily hold more than just me.” He smirked, glancing back at Ecthelion with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, lit brilliantly by the sun as she crested the mountain. “Perhaps my settling here was how the Lord of Waters knew it would be a haven of safety for your people…” His smile changed, turning softer at the thought as he nodded as if to say ‘yes, I like that’.

Ecthelion found himself returning the smile before Tathren abruptly turned again, unerringly leading them towards the pine grove that was indeed ringed by tiny blue flowers, Ecthelion suddenly noticed, and the three silent spectators awaiting them.

In the morning light, his hair seemed even more alive, a curling coiling mass of golden strands falling down his back that trapped the sunlight into a gleaming brightness. His clothing was simple but well-made, crafted from linen and wool with fur trims here and there that proved him a skilled hunter; the russet fox that lined the hood hanging down his back perfectly matched the colour of his trousers, loose around the legs until they were tucked into fur-trimmed boots embroidered with a mark that looked a little like a sigil. The green shade of his long-sleeved tunic, split at either side of his hips through it reached down far enough to obscure his backside would be the envy of any weaver or tailor, Ecthelion thought, wondering if the plants to make it grew in the valley or on the mountains.

“You’re staring,” Elemmakil whispered, punching him lightly in the arm.

Ecthelion stumbled for a moment, shaking his head to clear it of the image of Tathren as he glared at Elemmakil. “I was not,” he huffed. “I was simply lost in thought for a moment – I am trying to decide what to tell Turgon.”

“Of course, you were,” Elemmakil nodded calmly, waving at Cemdring whose own large blade was suspiciously close to hand.

Ecthelion smiled to see it; the master of ceramics and pottery was also a skilled warrior, and he was glad to see that they were on guard. Cemdring put their sword away, but Ecthelion barely noticed, all his attention taken by Eglosser’s puzzled expression suddenly clearing.

“Glorfindel!” he called, and Ecthelion felt almost surprised that he was surprised to see Tathren’s head raise as though his name had been spoken. Then he stopped dead, shoulders hunched as though to make himself appear smaller. 

“Glorfindel!” Eglosser repeated, suddenly running towards them despite Cemdring’s best attempt at holding him back. “It _is_ you – I know it is!”

“Once…” Tathren said slowly, “that was what they called me. Yes.”

“I knew it!” Eglosser exclaimed, laughing now. “Father always said he knew you were alive, still, out in the world to protect it – I can’t- _Oh_.” His elation dimmed as swiftly as a suddenly blown-out candle. “I can’t tell him,” he added sadly – Ecthelion recognised the lines of grief drawn on his usually cheerful face.

“You know my name,” Tathren whispered, sounding like he couldn’t quite believe it, “as that of a protector?”

“It was my favourite tale,” Eglosser admitted quietly. “One my father loved to tell – he always said he knew you too well to believe you would have died fighting a mere Stone Eye.”

“What was your father’s name?” Tathren whispered.

“I am Eglosser,” Eglosser began, “son of Celegon whose father was Tallagor.”

“Little brother, I called him,” Tathren – no, _Glorfindel_ , for the name suited him better than any willow – said quietly, “and now… he has a child of his own?”

“Celegon fell with Tallagor,” Eglosser told him quietly, and Ecthelion felt like he should not have been privy to the sight of the grief that struck Glorfindel at his words. “But you are… you have returned to us from legends, Glorfindel!”

And Eglosser’s laughter would have lightened the hearts of any who heard him in that moment, bright and joyful, but Ecthelion alone seemed to notice that Glorfindel’s smile did not quite reach the blue eyes which remained troubled.

* * *

“I shall leave you now,” Glorfindel said, rising from his seat by the small fire. “You may tell your king that I shall come to him at dark of moon twice from this day, but no sooner.”

“I shall await your coming, Lord Glorfindel,” Ecthelion replied, rising to offer him a bow. “Give my best wishes to your Darthoriel.”

Glorfindel seemed a little surprised but he nodded in thanks before setting off across the rocky ground, disappearing from view before any of them truly realised he had gone; Ecthelion wondered if he shared the Naga-queen’s visage, able to turn half his body into a snake-like shape to slither through the tough grasses though he considered it unlikely.

“I wish… I wish I could tell father he was right,” Eglosser said sadly, seeking comfort in the strong arms of his spouse. “But Lady Ruinelloth… we should send word to her at once!”

“No,” Ecthelion said. “We must not.”

“But-”

“No,” he repeated. “If we tell her, she will uproot her people from Nevrast with all due haste – we cannot feed or house so many yet; the King alone decides what news leave the valley.”

Ecthelion was not convinced that he had convinced Eglosser, but some part of him felt absolutely certain that bringing Lady Ruinelloth to the Hidden Valley would not be the joyful reunion of Eglosser’s rosy dreams.

Not yet, at any rate.


	4. Chapter 4

“You will not come with us,” Athess said, meditatively stroking the scaly body of a small snake that Tathren realised had fallen from his head in the night. The small one – they usually did not last long beyond being removed from his body, he knew – seemed blissful beneath her fingers, wrapping its cream and yellow length around her forearm.

Tathren took a seat beside her, leaning back on his elbows as he looked up at the sky, overcast but not in a manner that presaged rain. “No.” Another snake wrapped itself around his upper arm, squeezing slightly as it raised its head, tongue playing out to taste the air between them. “I am not a naga, Scalemother,” he added, “I am not, and you know this… I cannot go with you.”

“I know, hatchling,” Athess replied, taking his hand in hers, “but never forget that you are kin to me, and I love you as my son loved you, and your first mother, too.” She smiled at him, and Tathren felt the warmth of it envelop his bruised heart. “You are no naga, I know, but you are of our blood – even if you are of your mother’s blood, too.” Cupping his cheek gently, she added, “It makes no difference to me; if my son could love a dryad, I know I should have come to do the same if the world had been so that it allowed the time.”

Tathren squeezed her hand, emotions choking the words in his throat. “I – scalemother-”

Athess smiled, wiping a small tear away from his cheek. “They both would be proud of you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “Headstrong and capable,” she smiled, “my brave lad, you are a worthy scale of my scales, and I will miss you greatly, but I understand. This is your home.” For a moment, she paused, turning her head in the direction of the valley where the new elves had settled. Then she looked back at him, her smile soft but sorrowed still. “And they could be your people, hatchling,” she said, “and perhaps there will be a home among friends for you there.”

“I like it here,” Tathren replied stubbornly, gesturing at the cave he had made his home and the small field of millet he grew a little further down, the goat pen he’d built; a life, in short, and if it was small and lonely at times, it was also safe, both from threats and from the fear of petrifying an innocent by accident. He determinedly did not think of the Elves in the valley below, of Eglosser’s sweet smile bringing back memories he had believed long settled in his mind of another face, small and round with the childish glee that would grow strong bones in a time he never got to see. So far he had managed not to think too much of his mother; he did not know if he regretted not asking of her fate, or if he was better off not knowing – if she had perished in his absence…

“I understand, hatchling,” Athess replied softly, bringing Tathren out of his dark thoughts. “Do not fret.” She paused, bringing him closer for a small hug. “But know that I shall miss you always.”

“You can’t still scry for me if you’re too far away?” Tathren asked, accepting the soft comfort.

“There is nowhere you could go that I would not look for you,” Athess promised gently, the small snake asleep curled around her wrist. Holding up her arm, Athess’ smile turned crafty, stroking a finger down the cream and yellow back of the snake with a thoughtful hum. “I will look for your fate in the waters, hatchling, I promise.”

“But send no random messengers,” Tathren sighed, muffling the words against her bare shoulder. The snakes that spoke to him from time to time, reminding him that he was not entirely abandoned in the world, brought more solace than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

Athess chuckled. “Perhaps I shall find a way, scale of my scales,” she murmured into his hair, one of the snakes cosying up against her face with a slight hiss of approval. “Whither thou goeth, my love shall follow.”

* * *

“I did not think to need an escort, Ecthelion,” Tathren greeted, wandering out of the late-day sun to find the darkhaired elf who was not an elf waiting for him in a small camp at the base of one of the foothills.

A small rat snake had kindly hissed him in this direction, complaining about the intruder who disturbed her favourite nest site, and Tathren had felt compelled to seek out the invader for himself, wondering who might have been sent to stand guard in the mountains – for he was under no illusion that Turgon-King would consider him harmless.

At least, if _he_ was the King of the Noldor, he wouldn’t, and Tathren had no doubt that the West-born were clever folk.

“I… thought it best,” Ecthelion replied cautiously.

“You have not brought your guardian shadow along?” Tathren asked, looking around for the other darkhaired elf but seeing no sign of any companion.

“I did not exactly inform him of my errand,” Ecthelion shrugged, picking up his small pack with ease as he set off for the valley. “I wished to speak with you alone before you meet the King,” he added, sounding a little more uneasy than the last time Tathren had heard him speak of his friend who was the King.

“Then I am glad to have come this way,” Tathren replied, silently thanking the small snake for her guidance; Ecthelion had chosen to wait almost where leaving the mountain would be the hardest and Tathren never would have walked that way by his own decision.

“Oh!” Ecthelion exclaimed, “I forgot to ask – Darthoriel is well, I hope?”

“Most content to be liberated from the weight of a beautiful daughter; she’s dancing around the place with joy,” Tathren replied, feeling warm that Ecthelion even cared to ask about his goat. “What news of the valley?”

“Work continues apace,” Ecthelion nodded, the slight discomfort disappearing from his face within moments. “We have fortified our first camp, and some of the builders and engineers have begun to craft a way onto the island while we gather the supplies needed to last us through winter.”

“That is well,” Tathren nodded, tugging his fur-lined hood up over his head as the chill of evening rose about them. In front of him, Ecthelion walked, long limbs setting a fair stride as Tathren followed, wondering if the grace of motion was due the water in his blood, and whether he ought to tell him that he had seen the shape of him that was a horse with a spire of silver on its head.

He also wondered what Ecthelion might say to see the golden snakes that grew from his own head; he had not seemed overly afraid of Athess – or at least, no more than it was wise to fear Athess because she was _Athess_ , really – but he had asked no questions of Glorfindel’s physical abilities at the time.

“I would perhaps not mention to the King that you are related to the Queen of the Naga,” Ecthelion began haltingly, “we… when we went across the Helcaraxë, we…” He paused, clearing his throat.

“You met others of her kind?” Tathren wondered, honestly curious; he had never heard of Naga dwelling in water.

“Not _precisely_ ,” Ecthelion admitted. “It was… very big, and strong, and if they were tails on a snake it had several, and _so hungry_ ….” He shuddered. “It dwelled beneath the Ice,” he said, sounding far away, “and our Queen was lost to it, and Turgon’s only child almost, too… I just mean it might be better not to _describe_ her,” he finished, grimacing though Tathren did not know him well enough to tell whether it was at the words themselves or the proposed deception.

“I have no reason to vex your King,” Tathren pointed out. “I lived here happily without you, and I could live happily without either of us disturbing the other for ages to come.”

“Yes,” Ecthelion said. “Only I didn’t… if he comes off hard, think of him with some kindness for his losses, that’s all I ask.”

“Whatever you met beneath the Ice was no Naga,” Tathren said, making no promises about this Turgon he was going to meet. “Or if it once _was_ one of Athess’s children, it is no longer; the Shadow likes his games, playing with his toys until they are not as they ought be in looks or temper, tortured into a twisted version of the work of the Powers.”

“How did you… escape notice out here alone?” Ecthelion wondered, seemingly caught between impressed and suspicious.

Tathren sighed, considering.

But he knew he had already decided; Ecthelion’s trust repaid with his own.

“The Yrch and their ilk long ago learned to avoid these mountains,” he said, looking at the ground for a moment before he pounced, coming up with a wriggling earthworm. “And if they forget, I have left them a fair few reminders of what happens to those who run afoul of the dread Stone Eyes,” he added, grinning at the thought of the last time the yrch had tested his vigilance.

The worm wriggled.

Tathren focused on it, well aware that the blue glow of his eyes was frightening to behold.

The worm froze, turning grey in moments.

Tathren held out his hand, showing the perfectly petrified critter to Ecthelion.

“I am a dangerous creature myself, my lord,” he said, dropping the small bit of stone into Ecthelion’s palm. “Though I give you my word that I shall keep my glares to myself among you and yours. This skill of mine I use only to thwart the work of the Dark Vala when I can.”

“…” For a moment, Ecthelion seemed frozen with fear. Then he nodded, his shoulders relaxing, and dropped the stone worm on the ground. “I had suspected,” he said, sighing.

“I thought you might,” Tathren agreed, and they continued on in silence.

Far from the mountainside where she had last seen him, Athess stirred from her frozen position, running a gentle caress down the length of a tiny snake whose scales matched her own. In the water before her, two figures and a mountain blurred until they disappeared in the slight ripples, one golden in hue and the other dark, and she smiled at the sight of them. Groaning in slight relief she uncoiled her massive tail, stretching out the kinks in her shoulders as she set down the shallow basin she had held. 

“You are well, Mama?” her favourite son asked carefully, moving from his own watchful position to one of rest when she nodded, pouring herself a goblet of sweet wine.

“All is well, hatchling,” she smiled, draining the goblet. “Our little hatchling has found a new home, chosen a new family for himself. It is good.”

“I am sorry," Srama replied, “I know you had hoped to show him...”

Athess waved off his concern. “He is better off with them, hatchling,” she sighed, “I have always known that.” The small snake hissed contentedly, curling itself around her arm and hiding its head in her ample bosom.

“He is...” Srama agreed with a small sigh, taking the mosaic-tiled basin and pouring away the water, “and yet I had hoped to have a piece of my brother returned to me in the form of his son.”

“Ah but he is like our Seri in this, hatchling,” Athess Naga-Queen laughed, tickling the small snake with a finger. “Setting out to create a new family and making ripples across the song... yes, he is most certainly the son of my Serizhess,” she added, smiling at him. “And I do not intend to leave him entirely; we shall watch, you and I, and listen for the echoes of his mighty deeds to come.”


End file.
